


What is a promise worth?

by Assa_h



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Ficlets as chapters, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, R Plus L Equals J, Theon is raised on Dragonstone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 67
Words: 32,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assa_h/pseuds/Assa_h
Summary: 291 ACNed Stark is dead.And Catelyn made a promise to him.





	1. After

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclamer** : This world belongs to George R. R. Martin. I don’t own anything.

Dead.

_Her Ned…_

Dead.

_No._

They did everything. Maester Luwin. Old Nan. Herself. She did everything. And she would have done much more. She would have done anything.

But it was not enough. 

_And Ned…_

Gone.

_No. Please._

The night is long and only hers to mourn. 

But the morrow she has to do her duty. And there are the children.

Robb is Lord Stark now.  
Lord of Winterfell.  
Warden of the North.  
At the age of eight.

He needs his castellan. His Maester. His master-at-arms. All of his men. More than Ned ever needed them.

And he needs _her_.


	2. Fatherless child

He has been wandering in the castle for hours and hours and hours. 

Then, suddenly, it is not wandering but running. He runs through the hallways, through the courtyards and now he is kneeling before the weirwood in the godswood’s heart.

He cannot breathe. Or think. Or feel. He cannot cry anymore. 

He wants to go and find Robb but – in the end – he does not move. Robb is just a child like him. And he is not alone. Robb and Sansa and Arya have their mother to console them. Jon has no one.

People tell him how sorry they are, they say their lord was a good man, a good father to Jon. They say a lot of other nice things about Lord Eddard, about what Jon has lost – he _does_ know –, but they don’t say anything that really matters, anything about what will come now. Who is Lord Eddard’s bastard son without Lord Eddard? People don’t speak about that.

And none of them wipe his tears away. None of them embrace Jon and hold him tightly, hold him _whole_ when he believes pain will tear him apart. As Lady Stark does with Robb and the girls.

Dark clouds gather and summer snow is falling, sitting on his shoulders, in his hair. 

He has neither courage nor power to rise to his feet and face his new life.

Not now. Not yet.


	3. You have to leave

Catelyn finds them in the courtyard, swaying wooden swords in the air waiting for Ser Rodrik: Robb, the bastard and the Greyjoy boy. 

The message – sealed with a crowned stag – arrived that morning with the first light. There it is now, wrinkled, in her clenched hand.

She is looking for Theon, but she does not send the other two away. Robb has to be present, after all, as Lord of Winterfell, he has to know the news. And she does not care that Snow hears it or not. He is not important.

Catelyn hesitantly steps to Theon. She does not know how to say this, so she says in the simplest – and harshest – way. But life is harsh too. “A raven came, from the capital. You have to leave Winterfell.” 

He turns pale. His usual boldness disappears. He is speechless and suddenly so lost, so very young.

Robb, however, protests in his name. Of course.

“No. Mother, Winterfell is his home, Theon belongs here, to us.”

Catelyn hardens her heart and voice. She must.

“It _was_ his home. And he belongs where King Robert orders him to be.”

“My lady…” Theon’s voice is nothing but a gasping whisper.

“Go and pack up your things.”

The boy does not move, he does not seem to be able to. 

Robb glances at him, then back at Catelyn. His cheeks are red with anger. “Mother!” 

“Robb.” Catelyn sighs. “My lord. Come with me.”

Thank gods, he follows her, albeit reluctantly, leaving Theon in the yard with Snow. 

Once they reach the solar and shut the door behind them, he bursts out. 

“Mother, please. Surely, we can do something. We have to.”

Catelyn turns to him, trying to explain. Robb must understand. “Theon was your father’s ward. Not mine. Not yours.”

“I am Lord of Winterfell.” He declares for the first time but in the peeved and sulky voice of a child. 

Catelyn shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not in this. _Our king_ gave a command.”

She gets down on her knees so she can face him.

“Theon is going to travel to Dragonstone, Lord Stannis’ seat.”

She waits – in vain. Robb keeps quiet.

“At least, he can live by the sea. Theon is a kraken, after all. Think about it.” 

Poor encouragement, she knows. But she means it. And her son is smiling. A faint smile, without heart, only for her sake.


	4. What about me?

Catelyn is in Ned’s solar, sorting the parchments she has found in a chest, when someone knocks on the door. She opens it up, then, stares at the small figure standing outside.

Jon Snow looks up at her. He is pale. Terrified. Determined.

As for Catelyn, she couldn’t be more surprised if Balerion the Black Dread were snarling at her from the hallway.

“Lady Stark, may I speak with you?”

Still stunned, Catelyn waves Jon in. The boy comes in, then, he just stands in the centre of the chamber looking for the words. In his mind Catelyn must be Balerion the Dread.

“Sit down, Snow.” 

He obeys, and Catelyn waits again.

“I’m joining the Night’s Watch,” the boy declares.

In reply, she says the first thing that comes to her head. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

He is definitely scared now and paler than before. 

“You are just a child, barely eight,” Catelyn continues.

Snow gathers all his courage. “Maester Luwin taught us that a Lord Commander of the Watch was only ten.”

“Ten is more than eight by two.”

“But I would be only a recruit.”

“You won’t be,” Catelyn snaps at him.

The Watch can be a decent place for bastards; there even they can rise high. For grown bastards, at least. Snow is still just a child talking about nonsense.

“But Theon also will go…”

She cuts in. “Theon will go because it is the King’s right to decide about his future. About yours, however, I decide.”

_Why won’t I go then?_ The boy does not dare to ask, but Catelyn sees the question in his eyes.

Why not, really? It would be perfect, so perfect, if… 

If.

_Promise me, Cat. Promise me._

And she did. She promised… something.

She can’t be the one who sends Snow away, anywhere – or, seven hells, even allows him to leave. 

Besides, Catelyn means it, eight is too little.

“The day when Robb comes of age and not sooner… that day you could stand before him with your request.”

Snow nods, uncertainly, in amazement, then he stands up to leave. “Until then?” he mutters when he reaches the door. 

For a moment, Catelyn clenches her jaw. “Until then, you’ll train with Ser Rodrik. You’ll have your lessons with Maester Luwin.” _Is that what you want, Ned?_ “You’ll live here just like you have up until now.”

He nods again, with even more uncertainty, then, leaves her alone.

The boy has no idea how lucky he is. He got answers, be those answers even so few and vague, he should be grateful.

Catelyn would be. But there is no one to give answers to her.


	5. That night

It is a long night. An awful, endless night.

Catelyn spends it by the sickbed of her lord husband. This place is her whole world now, anything beyond that does not matter.

She is listening to Ned’s gasp, his desperate, whispered words. 

It is the same, over and over again. The same feverish, nonsense mumbling, without coherence. 

“He is… he must be… Stay. In safe. He is a Stark… Hearth and heart… Home. He must stay… Here. Always. Grant mercy… My blood… Help… never fail… He is… my blood. Stark. He must… Home.”

The bastard. Again and always, yes. 

Catelyn holds his hand and she is listening. She can listen to him, this is the only thing that she cares about. 

“Hearth and heart… Home. In safe. Here. Always. He is… he must be… Stay. He is a Stark… Grant mercy… My blood… Help… never fail… He must… Home.” 

He repeats it so many times that she should not even pay attention to it – she still does.

“Promise me, Cat. Promise me.”

_That one._ That one is important. Because Ned knows she is here. Or he expects her to be which is almost as good.

Catelyn does not want him to think that he is alone – that he will die alone.

“Promise me, Cat. Promise me.”

And she does.

*

Morning comes.

There is no gasp. There are no words.

There is only Catelyn.

Ned is gone.

His last words were about the bastard. His last thoughts were about the bastard. Not about his trueborn children. Not about his wife.

Catelyn has never been as angry with that boy – and Ned, with both of them – as she is now. She has never hated him – both of them – as much as now.

But…

_Promise me, Cat. Promise me._

And she did.


	6. Winterfell and Dragonstone

_Horrible, horrible island._ After spending three weeks here, Theon has no doubts about it anymore. 

Winterfell was home, at least sort of. Dragonstone is prison.

In Winterfell he had Robb and Jon and the little ones. On Dragonstone he has only Shireen with her dolls and her ugly face.

Lady Catelyn was stern but gentle, like Theon’s own mother. And she was beautiful. Lady Selyse is a shrew, bitter and cold. 

Lord Eddard was ice – but ice can melt. Lord Stannis is stone. (And his castellan, Axell Florent is an old goat, hostile and hot-tempered.)

On Theon’s first day, right after his arrival, Lord Stannis called for him and made Theon sit in his solar. 

“Do you know why Robert entrusted me with you, not, for example, Lord Arryn?”

“I don’t know, my lord” he said. Very politely, at least that was his intention.

“The King doesn’t like me and never favors me, but he is aware of one thing. If your father rebels again, Jon Arryn wouldn’t execute you. Many other lords in that royal cesspit wouldn’t execute you. I would. And I will if it is necessary.”

It was not a threat but a fact. And the only words that Lord Stannis had for him.

Eerie, soft singsong assails his ears. 

_Oh_ , and there is him. That dreadful creature.

“ _I know, I know, my little lord… I know, I know… Oh, oh, oh…_ ”

Patchface is coming, so Theon climbs down the rock where he has been watching the waves from, and runs towards the castle.

He really hates this place.


	7. Changing roles

Time passes. Day after day. Week after week.

Catelyn is watching her son, alarmed. 

She is watching him sitting in his father chair in the great hall. She knows her son still thinks of it as his father’s chair and feels strange, ill-fitting to sit in it. Or rather, he feels himself strange and ill-fitting there.

Yet, he keeps silent.

She is watching him while they talk about alliances and hostilities amongst the northern houses. And Robb frowns, edgily. 

Yet, he does not say a word. 

She is watching how he becomes more and more frightened.

More and more tense.

Then, one day when they are in the solar and Catelyn is explaining how a lord’s claim for a land can be as rightful as another’s based on old contracts and what decision Robb should make, when Robb slams his hand on the table. 

“Enough!” 

He brushes aside all the parchments and shoots out of the solar.

Catelyn does not follow him. It would not be wise now. Robb must be as fed up with her counsels and explanations and reassuring words as he is fed up with the duties and responsibilities of being the Lord. But solitude – being lost in his own thoughts – cannot help him. Catelyn cannot help him either. But someone else might be able to.

She rushes into the chamber where Snow sits with Maester Luwin leaning over a map of Westeros.

Both of them look up at her, surprised. Later she is going to apologize to the Maester, but first she turns to Snow because now she is desperate enough to do that.

“Robb and I argued. Go and find him.”

*

Finding Robb is quite easy, actually.

He must have been upset, so, Jon presumed, he just started running without any destination in mind. And the best place for being alone is the godswood of Winterfell.

Robb apparently hears his steps on the leaves and branches, because he quickly dries his eyes before looking up at him.

“Jon?” He sighs with relief. “I thought my mother came.”

Jon sits down on a rock beside him on the shore of the small, dark pool. 

“What’s wrong?”

Robb shakes his head. And Jon does not push him, he waits.

“I… I wanted to do everything well,” Robb says after a while. “I really tried but… I cannot.” 

Tears are running down on his face again, but this time, he does not care about wiping them off.

Robb is not just sad. He is angry.

“I don’t want to be the Lord of Winterfell,” he confesses. “I want Father to be here. I want my mother not to be disappointed in me.”

Robb was born to be Lord of Winterfell. It is far too soon for that, it is not fair with him (Father’s death was not fair with none of them), but Jon trusts in his brother, _believes_ in him, though that is not the good thing to say now. So he chooses something else, something equally important and true.

“You are not alone. I mean… you are alone in a lot of things I cannot help you with. But I’m here, if you need me.”

Robb nods. “I do.”

They sit in silence for a while.

“Shouldn’t you be at a lesson with Maester Luwin?” Robb asks. 

“I was, but Lady Stark sent me after you.”

“Mother wants me to go back? Because I won’t.”

“She didn’t mention that.” 

“Why then?”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know. To cheer you up?”

Doubtful curiosity appears on Robb’s face. “How?”

He almost shrugs again, then, something comes to his mind. “By pointing out that we’re probably free until dinner?”

And finally, his brother gives him a slight smile.

*

Catelyn is watching her son. He is running through the courtyard with Snow towards the stables or the walls. _Good._

A lot of issues would demand his attention, but it does not matter now. Catelyn could handle them.

For the most part, Robb has to be Lord of Winterfell. But sometimes he needs Jon Snow to be only a boy.


	8. Proposal

“My lady, may I ask, is that…?”

“A marriage proposal, yes,” Catelyn replies to Maester Luwin. 

Maybe it is a bit early. _Definitely_ early, but not entirely unexpected. 

Not even the sender’s identity surprises her. Not really.

She looks at the parchment in her hand but nothing else. It arrived half an hour ago sealed with a mocking bird. 

“Will you accept it?” The maester asks her after a while.

“No.” How could she? “He is a dear friend of mine, and, I have no doubt, the best intents lead him. But after the capital, the North would bore him, and his presence is indispensable to the realm’s wellbeing.”

According to Lysa, who wrote about him to Catelyn from time to time, almost proudly. And it is not hard to imagine that what she says is true. Petyr was always ambitious and clever enough to achieve his goals. 

And many years ago he was… Well, it is already in the past. In spite of it… 

“I never would be able to marry to him.” She puts aside the message and turns to the Maester. “Besides I could never marry to someone from the south.” For the lords of the North it’s more than enough that Catelyn herself came from the South. “And I won’t take a husband from the northerners either.”

“Never is a long term, my lady. And you are still young,” Maester Luwin notes.

Yes, she is young, only twenty-six. And she is a woman. 

A new husband could push her aside and lay a claim to the North. Apparently he would do.

Catelyn cannot allow that to happen.

She is also young enough to bear more children. 

A new husband could demand that those children, _his children_ , inherit Winterfell instead of Robb. And maybe he would do anything that it has to be done to ensure that.

Catelyn cannot allow that to happen.

“Nothing can be more important than Robb and Winterfell. I have no other desire only to know them safe. So ‘never’ fits me very well.”

Maester Luwin nods. “As you wish, my lady.”

She wishes that way. It is expected of her to get married again, but Catelyn does not care about expectations and conventions, for once. She has a home and a family and she will not entrust anyone else with them.

And… she still loves Ned. Maybe that is a childish excuse, a lot of people would say it does not matter, but she does love him and for her it matters.


	9. The greatest man in Westeros

Davos Seaworth is amazing. He is a sailor, the captain of his own ship. And he is – was – a smuggler. 

And he is a hero and a knight, though he was born in Flea Bottom. 

Davos allows Theon to come onto the deck of _Black Betha_. They cannot undock, but Davos shows the wheel, the sails, the ripping and the cordage, and explains everything to him about winds and currents and navigation. Theon is supposed to know these, he knew them _once_ ; but in the green lands he never needed that knowledge.

Davos has seen the Mander and Dorne and – across the Narrow Sea – Braavos (all of the free cities, actually). He knows every sea and every bay and every harbor (the true ones and those that are secret and hidden). 

And he tells Theon all about his journeys. 

His stories are far more exciting than Maester Cressen’s maps and books. Though the maps and books seem more exciting after hearing the stories.

Theon hopes that one day, when the King does not reckon his father as a threat anymore, he can sail with Davos to Braavos or Qarth or just to the Arbor. Theon would even content himself with the Arbor.

But Davos is shaking his head. “Sorry to say, boy, but I’m afraid if your father is no more a threat, it means that he is dead. And then you will be the Lord of the Iron Islands, won’t you?”

“I will, I think.”

Davos gives him an inquiring look. “Do you remember it? Your home?” 

“I do,” Theon says, very uncertainly. No one has asked him about Pyke for a long, long time. Robb did once or twice in the beginning, but he was little, only six years old, and his curiosity was not lasting. So as time passed, the memories faded. 

It seems like Davos understands that without words.

“Do you miss it?”

Theon frowns. “I miss my mother,” he replies finally. “And Asha, maybe. My sister.”

They have spoken about all the places reachable by water and some that are not. But they never spoke about Pyke. 

“Were you there, Ser Davos? On the islands?”

“I was.”

“What is it like? What are my people like?”

“Truly?”

_No._

What remains for him if he does not like Davos’ truth? On the other hand… he already has nothing. He is a hostage and a hostage needs reality, not illusions. Lord Stannis made that very clear. 

“Truly.”

So he tells him.


	10. Sickbed

Jon waits in the hallway in front of Robb’s door. He cannot enter the chamber, Old Nan was quite strict about that. 

“Robb is sick, very sick,” she had said, and Jon’s heart had sunk. 

Father was sick and now Father is dead and Robb… Jon cannot bear the thought. He must see him. He must know that his brother is… that he is still … 

The door opens and Lady Stark steps out. 

“Snow.” When she pronounces his name, it sounds like disapproval or complaint.

“I came to Robb.”

She does not reply but her face is cold and stern. 

“Please,” Jon continues in a hurry, almost pleadingly. “I can help. I can watch him, take care of him. I change the pack on his forehead and give him water.”

“You can’t,” Lady Stark says, wearily. “You won’t.” She shakes her head. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Suddenly she steps to Jon and puts her palm on his cheek, then his forehead. Her hand is cool, wet, soap-scented. 

She sighs. 

“Go back to your chamber. I don’t want another sick child.”

Thinking that Jon will obey, she starts making her way through the hallway. 

“Lady Stark.”

She turns back and raises her eyebrows, irritated.

Jon struggles with the words. “Robb… he will... he won’t…” He cannot say it aloud. If he does, it will become too real. 

Lady Stark understands him anyway.

“No, of course not.” Her voice softens a little but when Jon does not move, she scowls. 

She walks back to Jon and embraces him.

And Jon allows it, in astonishment.

He cannot hug her, of course. He would never dare to. 

But it is still good. 

When he relaxes, Lady Stark releases him, then, turns away and leaves.


	11. "... I know, I know..."

Patchface is chasing him. Theon tells Ser Axell, and he bundles him off saying it is just a foolish delusion. 

But Theon _knows_ he is right.

Maester Cressen tries to reassure him, telling Theon that Patchface was brought here to entertain Stannis and Renly, young boys, give them company and Theon is a young boy, after all.

But Theon _knows_ it is not true. 

Patchface does not want to entertain him, he does not want Theon to be here. 

_“You’ve no place here. No place, no. I know, I know. No, no, no…”_

Again and again.

Theon can go neither to Ser Axell, nor to Maester Cressen once more. 

Davos would believe him – no doubt he would – but he is not going to visit to Dragonstone for a fortnight.

Until then…

_“… no place here, no place there, no place, no place anywhere.”_

Without end.

However, that is far better than his songs about Theon’s painful and gruesome death. A lot of various deaths. 

Theon should be slaughtered like an animal, he hums.

Theon should be burnt alive, he sings.

Theon should be flayed and cut into pieces.

And Theon lies on the floor in front of his chamber’s door, in fear that Patchface will come to kill him himself.

And one night he comes. He does not try to open the door but he sits down on the other side and sings and hums for hours and hours as if it were a lullaby. 

But Theon cannot sleep. He hears and listens to every word.

The comprehensible ones.

_“Blades and knives wait for you, I know, I know, little lord.”_

And the strange ones.

_“Hands of black and eyes of blue, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”_

Night by night.


	12. Just a name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn's part happens earlier than Jon's.

Lady Stark has been calling him Jon for a while. 

In the beginning, she does not say it directly to him but uses it when she speaks about Jon to others.

When it first happens, they are sitting by the long table and having breakfast. Little Arya is chattering to him almost without a breath. The meal lays untouched on both of their plates. 

“Arya, let Jon eat,” Lady Stark warns her daughter. 

Arya falls silent in the middle of a word and mouths a bite heartily.

Jon should follow her example, but he stares at his plate instead. The name is ringing in his ears. Surely it was an accident, a slip of the tongue that will never happen again. 

But it does. 

*

For the first time, the boy is not even near. 

Catelyn makes her way towards the godswood with her daughters. Sansa holds her right hand, little Arya the left. They are walking through the courtyard when Ser Rodrik stops them to inform Catelyn of a captured deserter of the Watch. 

“Lord Stark should be present, my lady,” Ser Rodrik notes in a careful but hard voice.

Lord Stark. Robb, not Ned. But of course, he has to go. Catelyn knew that this day would come. In his last months, Ned often kept saying that it was time for Robb to help him in justice.

She nods. “He will be ready for the ride in half an hour.”

Robb and Robb only. She cannot escort him. It cannot spread that Lord Stark hangs on his mother’s skirt.

He does not have to be alone though. 

“Ser Rodrik.”

He turns back to her.

“Take Jon with you.”

The knight does not reply instantly just looks at her surprised.

“Is anything wrong?”

“No. It will be as you wish, Lady Stark.”

He bows then and leaves.

Hours pass before Catelyn realize what amazed Ser Rodrik.

She does not think about what she calls Jon Snow, has not for a long time, the word comes to lips unconsciously. Like ‘boy’ and ‘Snow’ before, now ‘Jon’, it seems. But she decides it is alright. 

It is just a name, after all.


	13. Under the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a bit nervous about this chapter, but what happens in it is an important part of Theon’s future characterization and storyline, so here it is…

Theon does not struggle until they reach the shore. He is dazed, Patchface hit him over the head in the hallway, and he hit hard. 

He is humming – as always. 

It makes no sense – as always.

_“My servant, they would say… Beneath the grey sky in a cold, wintery day. But you never were mine and never will be. I know, you know. You aren’t worthy. Never was. Never will be. I know, you know. Not for stone and not for steel. Though I can give you salt. Though I can give you to the salt. And I will. Oh, oh, oh.”_

When Theon feels the flavor of the sea, he tries to stop, to escape. But Patchface is strong, stronger than him, stronger than a soft and trembling creature like him is supposed to be and he drags Theon further, into the sea. 

It is a stormy night. The waves are running high, pushing Patchface. Theon is on his knees now, forced to follow him. Water fills his mouth and he must cough but there is no air anymore. 

Patchface keeps him under the surface, he clutches his neck and tightens his hold and tightens it. 

When the waves withdraw, Theon hears him for a moment.

“What is dead may never… rise. _You_ never rise.” He shouts and laughs.

And Theon is squirming, he is kicking and beating and biting. And somehow he is on his feet and Patchface under the water. 

Holding. 

Squeezing.

The only thoughts that remain in his mind. 

He is snarling while waves slap in his face blinding him and almost knocking him over.

_Holding._

_Squeezing._

Nothing else matters.

Suddenly people arrive and grab Theon’s arm and shoulder, trying to pull him from Patchface.

“Release him, Greyjoy, it’s over.”

_No._

“Don’t you hear me, boy?”

Ser Axell. Theon hears him, but why he should listen to him, why he should believe him? Ser Axell did not believe him either. 

Another voice comes then. Kinder. Sad.

“He is dead, Theon. Release him, son.”

Davos. He can trust Davos. He _does_. 

His fingers go limp and Theon allows to be dragged to the shore.

Lying in the sand, panting he stares at the sky. Clouds are swirling and lighting bolts after lighting, but it is not raining yet.

Ser Axell and Davos are speaking, maybe to him, maybe with each other. Theon cannot concentrate. 

A little further to him the others bring Patchface out of the water and put him down.

Theon does not pay attention to it. He does not have to anymore.

Until one of the men cries with shock and fear.

“Gods! He is alive.”

And Patchface is flailing as if he were still in the water. Flailing and shouting:

“Help! Help us! My Lord… where is… Lord Steffon! My lord!”


	14. The Fool

Theon is sitting in bed with a large book in his lap when Ser Davos enters his chamber. 

“What an amazing sight,” he notes with a smile. “You weren’t a lover of books before.” 

As some kind of explanation, Theon holds up his reading with its cover to Davos but he only raises his eyebrows. 

“Apologies, I forget. It’s about the cults of Westeros. Patchface’s words when he… strangled me, I found them familiar, but I wasn’t sure, I didn’t remember correctly… so I asked for a book from Maester Cressen.”

“A book about religion.” Davos sits down on the bedside.

“Yes.” He knocks one a page with a finger. “When someone gets a blessing from one of the Drowned God’s priests, the priest says: _Let your servant be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel._ And the blessed responds: _What is dead may never die._ ” Theon glances at Davos who nods to reassure him to continue. “Patchface called me his servant. And he also mentioned the steel, the stone and the salt. Especially the salt.”

“So… what are you saying?”

Theon takes a deep breath. “I think he is the Drowned God. Or some part of him.” He is blushing. Impossible, of course impossible, still…

“He was.” Davos corrects him after a while. “If you’re right.”

“Can I be right?” He is truly – desperately – curious.

“When you spend most of your life sailing the seas, you see a lot of incredible things and can believe much more.”

Theon nods with relief. Davos does not think he is mad, at least. So there is a chance that he is not mad indeed. 

“How did you mean ‘he was’?”

“You should talk to him.”

“To whom? Patchface?” Theon shakes his head. “I don’t want to meet him again.”

“He says his name is Vollys.”

“Oh. Does he have a name now?” Theon asks maliciously. 

“You should talk to him,” Davos repeats.

*

Though Patchface – or Vollys – is chained to the dungeon’s wall, Theon stops at the door, in a safe distance from him. 

The man looks up at him. His gaze is clear, focused. Different.

„Theon Greyjoy,” he declares.

Theon narrows his eyes. “I thought you don’t remember.”

“I don’t, but people say I tried to kill a boy, named Theon Greyjoy, and here you are with bruises on your neck. Sorry about that.”

His manner of speech is different as well. His voice is steady and there is a slight strangeness to his vocalization. 

Carefully, Theon steps closer. Just one small step though.

“What _do_ you remember?”

The man sighs. “I got on a ship that sank before it could have reached the shores of Westeros. I already know that happened fourteen years ago. I _know_ and I believe, but it still seems like only a moment has passed since then.”

“And in all these years… the things that Patchface said, the things he did…”

The man shakes his head. “There was someone or something watching this world through my eyes, speaking with my tongue and using my limbs… I don’t share his memories though. I don’t know how it is possible.” He shrugs. “That’s the only answer I can give.”

Theon does not know ‘how’ either, but knows it is possible. And he is sure of something more. It is good to say it aloud. 

“Anything he was, it is gone.”


	15. The old gods and the new

Catelyn is kneeling on the sept’s floor before the Crone when the door opens creakily, and Sansa steps in. Arya comes along with her holding onto Sansa’s hand.

They stand in the middle. Sansa is charmed when looks around on the gods’ faces. Arya, however, is a bit frightened. She draws closer to her sister. 

“Mother,” Sansa addresses her. “Shouldn’t we pray to your gods as well?”

Catelyn always brings them to the godswood. And Robb too. Even little Bran. People must see her children as true northerners. She cannot explain it to them; they are too young to truly understand. 

“I’m here to pray to them for you,” she says. “But your lord father isn’t here anymore. To his gods you have to pray.”

“You also pray to them.” 

“Sometimes.” But those are not proper prayers. The old gods are not expecting such a thing. It seems strange to her. Something _not real_. “Though I don’t go to the godswood to speak to the gods but to be with your father.”

Arya scowls. “Father isn’t there. He died.” 

Catelyn nods. “That place reminds me of him.”

Arya sees the sadness behind her smile. She sits in Catelyn’s lap and clings to her neck. Catelyn feels her breathe as Arya buries her face in her shoulder.

Sansa kneels down beside her, and Catelyn puts an arm around her waist.

“Can we go to the wood now?” her daughter asks.

Catelyn’s smile is still sad but much more honest. “Yes.”


	16. Walking on hands

Theon has no tasks or duties this afternoon. So he goes out to the fields around the castle. And apparently he is not the only one who does that. 

Vollys is lying in the grass, staring at the clouded sky.

Theon is about to turn on his heels and leave, but finally changes his mind and walks closer. He does not have to be afraid of Vollys. He cannot be such a coward.

“What are you doing?”

“The correct term is ‘brooding’, I think,” he sighs. 

Brooding. Just like him. Theon sits down beside the man, and Vollys sits up to look at him.

“You know, when I was in your age I could have walked around the whole island on my hands.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Theon says skeptically. 

“Well, perhaps not,” he admits. “But I could walk on hands _very_ long. And now? I cannot even hold myself. Although, I tried a lot.”

“Patchface never did.”

“Yes, and my body forgot it, my muscles… I have no muscles anymore.” 

Salty, cool breeze is rising and makes the grass dance around them. 

“I will learn again,” Vollys declares suddenly. It sounds almost like an oath. “All of it. Walking on hands. Doing cartwheels. You will see.”

“I’m _eager_ to see. But why?”

“Because this is who I am.”

“A fool?” 

Vollys shakes his head. “Not necessarily. Not anymore. But someone who can do these things.”

Theon envies him because of that certainty. 

“I don’t know who I am,” he confesses. 

“I can tell you that,” Vollys teases him. “You are Theon Greyjoy, heir of Pkye.”

Theon’s eyes drop down. “No, definitely not.”

It has been a faint feeling before, a thought without form. This is the first occasion to try to put it into words.

“I don’t belong among them, among the ironmen. I was born to be one, of course, but… I’m not like them.” Not like the men in his memories and not like the men in Davos’ stories. And Theon is not whom once he imagined himself to be. “I’ve been living far away from the Iron Islands for a long time. Too long. And you know what? I like it, not being a ward or a hostage or anything people call me. But the way they live. In the North. Here. The Drowned God knew that and denied me. I cannot return there. Nor do I want to. And I thought… I can be forced to stay away but cannot be sent back.”

Vollys does not laugh at him. “What will you do then?”

“No one has asked me this for years.” Including himself. Because he couldn’t have decided for himself for years.

“No one has _ever_ asked me this. Never in my life, at least not in the life I have memories of. However, you see, I knew the answer. Well, one answer.”

“Maybe I’ll sail around the world.” The plan still sounds appealing. “Is that good enough?”

Vollys smiles a bit. “You can say ‘maybe’. _It_ is good enough.”


	17. Alliance

Since Ned’s death Benjen has been afraid of coming to Winterfell, seeing his childhood home without the last sibling he had. But it is Robb’s tenth nameday. His presence is expected. 

When he rides in the courtyard, there are already excited voices of children greeting him. 

“Uncle Benjen! Uncle Benjen!” Robb and Jon run to him shouting. Arya is there in their heels, though she can barely remember him.

Laughing, Benjen dismounts to meet them.

In contrast with her siblings, Sansa stands still and solemnly like a perfect lady, the younger and smaller image of her mother. A little boy hangs on her coat. Brandon, _Bran_ , obviously.

Catelyn welcomes him with an embrace and a warm smile. They exchange some polite words before she reminds the children that it is time to prepare for the evening.

All of them follow her obediently towards the castle, expect for Jon. He does not move but looks up at him curiously. He must have countless questions, as in the past. 

“Go, Jon,” Benjen urges him. “We can talk during the feast.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t eat with you but will help serving the dishes.”

Benjen raises high his eyebrows.

“It’s a punishment,” Jon explains.

“For what?”

“Robb and I built a huge heap of snow on the wall. We wanted to dump it onto the girls’ neck when they walked through the gate. But Septa Mordane accompanied them and she got very angry, so she hurried immediately to Lady Stark.”

“And what about Robb?”

Jon shrugs. “He was punished too, but he is our lord. He got something fitting to that.”

*

Benjen is watching Jon from the high table, scowling. He concentrates only on his task, takes it very seriously, does not even glance towards them. 

So strange. For highborn children being a cupbearer for respected guests means a great honor. But this is different. Jon is baseborn and without his Stark features, he would not stand out from the servants. As time passes and food and drink lessen, the lords and ladies seem to forget him completely. 

Still, the whole situation… it just does not feel _right_.

“Aren’t you too stern with him?” Benjen turns to his sister-in-law.

“No,” Catelyn replies without hesitance, and drinks a sip from her wine. “Now, please, tell me about the Night’s Watch. I know all the tales about courage and glory. I learnt them as a child. But I want to hear what the reality is.”

*

A week from now, almost every lord and lady of the North comes to Winterfell to greet Robb on his tenth nameday. For most of them that will be the first visit here since Ned died.

For Catelyn that will be the first – and maybe the only – chance to find out what their opinion is about her and Robb, the southern lady and the boy lord; which of them could be a friend and which of them is a threat. 

But how does she do it? A man can flatter and say beautiful lies face to face, while he is sharpening his blade to stab it into Catelyn’s back. Of course, servants could see a lot, servants could hear anything. But can they be trusted? Trusted enough to tell her all they see and hear? 

No, Catelyn would not dare to ask them to do such thing. 

Suddenly, Septa Mordane storms in the solar to inform her of the newest mischief of the boys. She persists it is lack of respect, Catelyn thinks it is an accident. A very unfortunate one. 

They would never disrespect Septa Mordane on purpose.

Anyway, she sighs and sends for them.

Some minutes later while she is listening to Robb’s story, she realizes that the solution stands before her. 

_Jon Snow_. He is clever and a good observant, according to his teachers. Sharp mind and sharp eyes, exactly what she needs. 

“… Arya was laughing and Sansa… well, Sansa screamed _first_. But she snapped then, and didn’t look like she was going to cry or something, mother. She wanted to take revenge on us.” Her son’s eyes are shining, no doubt, he fantasies about a hilarious snowball fight. 

“Enough,” Catelyn cuts in before Robb can start to paint it right when Septa Mordane can still hear him. “Robb, go to Maester Luwin. He mentioned that some of the old scrolls will soon become unreadable. I’m sure he will be very glad if you offer your help in copying them.”

Robb pulls a long face but obeys. 

After him Septa Mordane leaves as well, contended. If the lord was punished, the other one will be too. (Or she just wants to follow Robb to see he does not delay.)

Catelyn turns to Jon.

“And you…”

“It was my idea.”

Perhaps it was. Perhaps he only tries to defend Robb, or says what he thinks Catelyn would like to hear. It does not matter, because…

“You did it together.”

The boy nods, he cannot argue with that.

Then he waits for her judgment. Catelyn, however, hesitates. 

“Can I join Robb, Lady Stark?” he asks after a while. 

“Maester Luwin wouldn’t mind one more hardworking hand. But…”

Can she do it?

Well… this is not a proper question. It _must_ be done.

“I want to speak with you.” She waves him closer and takes a deep breath. “The heads and heirs of the northern houses arrive at Winterfell in a little while. There have not been so many important people here since… for years. Robb’s future, House Stark’s future depends on them. Because of that, I have to know what they think about Robb. About me. Of course, they wouldn’t tell me. So I need someone who can find out what they talk amongst themselves about.”

Jon’s eyes widen.

“You mean… spy on them?”

It sounds awful, especially from a child’s mouth. But a lot of awful things are a necessity. It is that easy.

“Yes,” Catelyn nods nervously. “Yes, spy on them. Would you do it?”

Jon does not reply immediately. Catelyn prefers it this way, he has to be sure in his decision, he has to know what he is consenting to. Jon frowns, then the wrinkles smooth out on his forehead.

“I would like to help Robb. And you.” He adds the last words in a hurry and more quietly. So he can pretend – if Catelyn shows any sign of displeasure – that he did not say it at all.

She smiles at him. 

“Thank you, Jon.”


	18. Late night talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Finally guests are leaving, one after another, so peace and blissful silence return to Winterfell. 

One evening – _Or is it night already? How late is it?_ –, Benjen comes to Catelyn. She offers him a cup of wine and they are sitting together by the solar’s fireplace. 

“I was glad that you asked me about the Watch,” he says. 

It is the voice of a petitioner, Catelyn knows it very well.

“We are supposed to guard the realms of men, but we became a dull sword, a weak shield by now. The Watch is dying.”

“Is that so bad?” Catelyn asks. “What even is the Wall? A penal settlement for criminals of the Seven Kingdoms or a true border to be defended?”

Understanding what she means, he replies: “The wildlings are dangerous, Catelyn, especially with this new leader, Mance Rayder. The Wall is needed, so the Watch is too.”

Of course, but the existence of the Watch has always relied on a realm that already forgot to care – and they were aware of it.

“Last time we met, Ned and I had a discussion about the abandoned castles alongside the Wall.”

Out of nineteen castles, sixteen was abandoned. Arya has recently learnt to list them all, and repeated their names whole days long like a rhyme.

“Winterfell can support you in reopening a few castles, with gold and building material. But how will you fill those strongholds with _men_?”

Benjen smiles bitterly. “In the old days, we didn’t have to beg to anyone or force them.”

“Vows, full of resignations that tying them up for the rest of their lives can discourage people easily,” Catelyn notes.

“We had a plan though… rather an idea: raising new lords to defend the Wall and tend to the fields.”

“The Gifts belong to the Watch,” she points out.

“Yes, and they would pay taxes to the black brothers.” 

It can work, Catelyn admits. And the Watch must reshape itself to endure.

Maybe, with time, they could repair Queenscrown to help the cooperation between the Wall and Winterfell, and oversee the inhabitants of the Gifts who would pay to the Watch, but would still remain subjects of the North.

One day, Queenscrown would be a good place for Bran. When he grows up, he will need a holdfast. 

“Does Lord Commander Mormont know that we talk about this?” 

“He would agree with me. He _will_.” 

Catelyn sighs heavily. She made the decision. “If we start this, we have to start now, before winter comes.”

Benjen nods. “Let it be that way.”

He should be content, still he seems more worried suddenly, more tense. 

“Is there something else?”

“Well.” Benjen clears his throat. “About Jon…” 

_Ah._

“Don’t you think serving on the feast was an unfair punishment? While Robb just copied some dusty scrolls for the same act.”

Catelyn shakes her head. “It was not an unfair punishment, but a cruel favor.”

Benjen leans forward, frowning. “Explain it.”

And Catelyn does.

“Was it worth it?” he asks then.

“Some of my assumptions were confirmed. Lord Cerwyn and Cregan Karstark are still cross with me because I refused their marriage proposal. Though Lord Cerwyn hopes for a betrothal between our children.”

“But his daughter…”

“Is nearly my age,” Catelyn affirms. “His son, however, is only a year older than Sansa. Lord Manderly talks a lot, but never says what is really on his mind. And Lord Bolton says nothing. But both of them were watching the others as carefully as Jon was.”

This does not seem to surprise Benjen.

“Jon found Domeric Bolton kind enough but was wary of his father,” Catelyn continues. “He told me that he felt uncomfortable around him. The Mormonts are ashamed of Ser Jorah’s deeds and escape. Most of the lords say that they have a great debt for House Stark. The Mormonts themselves don’t declare such things, of course, but they think and act that way… Lady Maege likes me. I know it from her not Jon, but she seems to be telling the truth. On the other hand, Barbrey Dustin holds her grudge against all the Starks, especially me who shouldn’t be a Stark at all.”

And the firstborn, who is half her and half Ned.

“Do any of them pose a threat?”

“ _Almost every one of them_ can be a threat. But not yet. They are waiting – and planning, no doubt.”

“So do you,” Benjen says.

“I do what I must to protect my family.”

“Is Jon a part of your family?”

Catelyn stays silent for a while. She has not answered that question for herself yet and she will not for Benjen either.

“Ned trusted me with him.”


	19. Patches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Shireen has a question. A haunting one. Very important. But she would not dare to ask Maester Cressen, of course. Although he is always kind to her, he has all of those chain links around his neck to represent – Shireen thinks – all knowledge of the world. 

He undoubtedly would know the answer, but Shireen is afraid of that answer and she fears even more to ask her question. Maybe it is a silly one, after all, which means Shireen is a silly girl. She does not want the Maester realize that.

So she cannot turn to him with her problem. But Theon is just Theon. Shireen can ask him anything without hesitation. 

She takes a deep breath and does it. “Perra will bear her child soon, within a few weeks, according to Maester Cressen.”

Perra is a cook in Dragonstone’s kitchen. And Maester Cressen spoke about her condition not with Shireen, of course, but Shireen’s lady mother. However, Allyra was there too, one of Lady Selyse’s handmaidens, and she tells Shireen everything (she tells _everyone_ everything, to be fair). 

“And her child is also Vollys’ child.”

Theon nods, frowning. 

“Yes…”

“So will the babe look like him? Patchfaced?”

Something flashes in Theon’s eyes. Maybe amusement, maybe pity or… probably both.

“The babe can be like him,” he says finally. “Like he was before the tattoos.”

Relief washes over her.

“So my children won’t inherit my patches either, right? They can be… pretty.”

She adds that last word very quietly, very shyly. 

Theon smiles at her with one of his usual, wide smiles.

“Little lady, your children will be lucky if they take after you.” 

He is always nice and gentle and chivalrous to her. Shireen enjoys it and mostly believes him, but times like this she is aware that it is just that: chivalry. She makes a face. 

“I know what I see in the mirror.”

“I think you don’t. You’re a fighter. Like Visenya and Nymeria.”

“They are beautiful on all the pictures,” she replies with bitterness.

Theon shrugs. “Maybe they were, maybe not. But the pictures aren’t made because of their beauty, we remember them because they were _strong_. _You_ are strong.”

“They led fleets and armies and conquered with steel and fire and blood.”

“And you survived without fleets or steel or fire.”

Shireen forces a smile and she hopes it seems genuine enough. Theon deserves it, after all. Even if he is wrong.

Being pretty is expected of ladies, being strong is not. And it does not matter how flattering is what Theon says, she would rather choose the first one.

He smiles back, somehow sadly.

“One day, little lady, you will understand I was right.”


	20. Betrothal

Catelyn is staring at the pile of open letters on her desk. 

Lord Rickard Karstark suggests that he visits Winterfell again – with his daughter this time.

Lord Manderly calls _Robb_ to visit White Harbor in the near future and meet his sons _and_ daughters. 

And the Umbers.

The Cerwyns.

The Glovers.

The Tallharts.

Maege Mormont’s letter, perhaps, is perfectly innocent. But Catelyn is suspicious already. 

But she knew this day would come, did not she? She expected it. She was prepared for it. Or, at least, she thought she was. Yet…

Robb’s future marriage is too important. The North lost a whole generation of Starks. Brandon and Lyanna died (and before that they were promised to southerners). Benjen joined the Night’s Watch. And Ned wed _her_.

Catelyn leaps up from her chair and paces in the chamber pensively.

She has to choose an old esteemed northern house, of course. 

For her family’s sake, one with not enough power or ambition to try to take charge. 

For the others’ sake, one that could not be a threat to anyone, one that no one would be offended by.

She has to keep up the balance in the North.

Catelyn decides. It is a strange choice maybe, but understandable from a Stark, acceptable to everyone. She hopes so. 

She sits down to the table again to write a letter to Lord Howland Reed.


	21. Girlish things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.
> 
> Jon is 12 years old, Sansa and Jeyne nearly 10, Arya about 7.

Sansa, Arya and Jeyne Poole are standing on the muddy courtyard and yelling at each other.

Jon is on his way to Mikken’s forge, but upon hearing the quarrel, he rather hurries to the girls.

“What has got into you?”

The three of them fall silent immediately but only for a moment. 

“She called me Horseface,” Arya complains, her cheeks reddening with anger.

“You mocked her too,” Sansa retorts.

Arya draws herself up, as much as she could. “I said the truth.”

“It matters how we say things,” Sansa declares in a lecturing voice. “And with what intention.”

“What did you say to her?” Jon interrupts his sisters, trying to do justice.

Suddenly they realize that he is still there. Arya and Sansa seem embarrassed but Jeyne looks horrified. 

Frowning, Jon glances at one of them after another.

“Sister?” he urges.

Jeyne and Sansa stare at Arya. Jeyne’s gaze is appealing, Sansa’s is meaningful.

“Nothing,” Arya says in the end.

“But…”

“Nothing, really,” she insists. “Just some… girlish things.” She shrugs. “We are girls, you are not. So it’s not your business.”

Jon sighs. Girls, yes, no doubt.

“Fine,” he says in a defeated voice, and turns to Jeyne then. “Nevertheless, you shouldn’t call her names like that.”

“Of course.” She looks at Arya. “Sorry.” 

“I’m sorry as well,” Arya replies with decorum. “And I forgive… your intention.”

“It’s not only about my intention. What I said wasn’t true. According my father, you’re like what Lady Lyanna was like at your age.”

Sansa nods. “Old Nan always tells us the same. Besides, Arya looks similar to Jon.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. _How does that have to do with anything?_

“Don’t you think, Jeyne?”

“I do,” Jeyne mutters, her eyes fixed on the ground.

This almost sounds like it is _Sansa_ who is teasing her now.

With something Jon cannot understand. He sighs again. Girls. They are so… strange.


	22. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

After Arya misses dinner, Catelyn finds her in the chamber where the girls used to practice needlework with Septa Mordane. 

Her daughter huddles up in her chair, clearly in a rotten mood.

Catelyn sits down next to her and picks up the embroidery hoop Arya must have thrown aside. She wants to offer some comforting words… And a glance at the stitches tells her that this will be rather easy, actually.

“Arya. The last ones are quite good.”

She grimaces. “Jon made it.”

Catelyn’s jaw drops. “What the seven hells would compel Jon to do embroidery?”

Arya sighs. “They were arguing. Sansa and him. I am to blame, because I was saying that I want… never mind.”

Catelyn does not agree with that statement, but she decides to wait for the end of the story. 

“Sansa said some activities were made for boys and some made for girls, and as Jon does not sew, girls should not fight. Jon replied that it wasn’t a rule but a custom and everything is a question of practice. Sansa challenged him then, telling him if it is true, Jon should prove his point by with sitting with us to embroider. So he did.”

“Well, I presume proving Sansa wrong was a good motivation for him,” Catelyn notes.

“Yes. But if I make pretty or, at least, proper stitches, that just would prove Sansa right. Not that my stitches would ever be proper. Even _Jon_ can do better than me.”

Catelyn looks down at the hoop again. Undoubtedly, he can do better than Arya. She tries her best not to smile. _Will he boast with that to Robb?_

Fortunately, it seems like Arya is lost in her thoughts. Then, she takes a long, heavy breath. 

“Mother, I want to learn swordplay and how to draw a bow.”

She is so determined, so frightened, waiting her answer.

‘Never mind,’ she said.

But it _does_.

“All right.”

Arya’s face lights up. She barely dares to believe what she has just heard.

“Would you allow it?” she asks in an eager tone.

Catelyn shrugs, slightly. “Swords and bows fit in boys’ hands. _Generally._ But Jon said it well, it’s not a rule.”

She has heard the tales about Lady Lyanna who had a great talent for the sword and the bow, moreover, the spear. Surely Arya has also heard them. And there are the Bear Island’s warrior ladies.

“On the other hand, he was wrong. Because women’s activities are not simply a custom but a tradition, and have their importance. Sitting in chambers like this, embroidering and talking with other ladies are a part of the game.”

Arya scowls. “What game?”

“A game every highborn participates in, whether they know it or not, whether they want it or not. Hunts and tourneys and carousals are where men can make deals and alliances. We can do it with needles in our hands. It doesn’t matter if you are good or terrible at it, Arya. But you have to learn.”

“Using a needle or playing this _game_?”

“Both.”

“But I can learn to fight, as well.”

Catelyn nods. “As I said.”

Arya nods too, very seriously. “We made a deal, mother.”

“In a sewing chamber,” Catelyn points out.

Arya stares at her for a moment, and then, she finally laughs.


	23. Lord Mockingbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 295 AC

“It’s a great honor to finally meet you, Lord Stark,” Petyr Baelish says bowing deeply before him.

“Welcome in Winterfell, my lord,” Robb replies in his best ‘the Lord’ voice. At least, he hopes he sounds like a lord.

Petyr Baelish is a short man – no doubt, Robb will grow higher in a few years. That thought makes him more confident. Lord Baelish arrived straight from the capital, he is a member of King Robert’s small council, one of the most important men in the realm. But Robb can be higher than him, one day. He does not know why it matters. In this moment, however, he simply needs this certainty.

“Your castle is more than worthy of its reputation.”

Which can be a compliment but an offence as well.

Petyr Baelish, perhaps, is not aware of this. Or he does not assume that Robb realized it.

His grey-green eyes are genuine. They _seem_ so genuine. (Jon and him were also quite good at _seeming_ genuine when they definitely were not.)

“You are very kind, my lord.” All in all, _that_ was his best ‘the Lord’ voice.

*

“You must be Sansa and Arya,” the man declares with a kind – a far too kind – smile.

Arya is not impressed. _Of course_ , they are Sansa and Arya. Who else could they be, a girl with the Tullys’ face and another one with the Starks’?

Sansa curtseys and she follows her with a small delay.

“And this is Jon,” Arya says, because Jon stands behind them.

The man pretends that he is only noticing him now.

“Ah, Jon Snow, your half-brother.”

Jon bows his head in an easy manner, but Arya scowls.

“Why half?”

“We don’t share the same mother,” Sansa explains in a pendant voice. Because Sansa likes to know things and she likes even more to show off that she knows things.

“Yes, and? He is our brother.”

“He is our brother nonetheless,” Sansa agrees.

“Of course, my mistake. I beg your pardon, my ladies.” Lord Baelish’s voice is light, his smile sickeningly sweet.

No, Arya is not impressed, not at all.

*

They gather in Robb’s bedchamber that evening, all of them, even Little Bran is there, sitting in Sansa’s lap.

“I don’t like him,” Robb declares. “He is too…” He is looking for the good word to describe the man. “Too _southerner_. In a wrong way.”

Jon agrees with him. ‘Southerner’ is not the perfect term though. He feels the same discomfort around him as he felt around Lord Bolton. But he cannot speak to them about that.

“He is mother’s friend,” Sansa reminds them. “And I appreciate his manners. Everyone should be like him in the court.”

“The court is an awful place then,” Arya notes morosely. “He is sneaky.”

Sansa shrugs. “He won’t stay long anyway.”

“I really hope so,” Robb says.

Jon and Arya nod in unison. Bran mimics them, although he cannot understand completely what they are talking about.

Suddenly, the door opens and Lady Catelyn steps in the chamber. She does not seem surprised to find them together. She glances at them one by one, as if regarding them – and maybe Jon only imagines but her gaze seem to be resting on him by a heartbeat longer –, then, she turns to Sansa.

“I would like to speak with you in private.”

*

“He is the King. I can’t refuse him.”

“But why would you do that? I can be queen.”

Her mother looks worried. And that would make Sansa worried too, would make her _think_ – in any other moment, but not now.

She is dreaming awake and her dreams are _dazzling_.

One day, when she comes of age, she is going to go to King’s Landing and be Queen Cersei’s lady-in-waiting. Then on another day of her bright future, she is going to wed Prince Joffrey.

“Yes, a queen,” mother says, and her voice sounds somehow pained. 

Sansa does not understand why.

“Do you believe I am unworthy of it?” If that is the case, her heart will shatter.

“No, my dear.” Mother shakes her head and she reaches to squeeze Sansa’s hand. _But why is her smile sad?_ “I believe you deserve better.”

Sansa almost starts to giggle. She is so thrilled, if it were up to her, she would dance round and round endlessly in the chamber.

“What could be better than being queen?”

“Being a queen means power. And power means people watch and judge every move and every word of yours. They judge _you_.”

“But the queen is above them. Above all of them.”

“Still, in a way the queen is the least free woman in the realm. I know you are capable of bearing all the responsibility of that position, I believe you will do it marvelously. But I wish you didn’t have to.” 

Sansa remains silent for a while.

“But you cannot refuse the King.” She hopes so.

“I can’t.” _That_ voice again, Sansa, however, does not care, she _does not want_ to.


	24. More a stranger

“With his proposal, His Grace would like to honor Lord Eddard’s memory and their old friendship.”

“Great honor, indeed,” Catelyn says thoughtfully. 

“And yet you don’t seem glad.”

She is not. She should be – probably – but she is not.

“I’m just worried, like mothers always are.” She forces a smile. “Sansa is a northern girl and so young.”

“Time will solve both of those.” Petyr assures her. “She can come to the court and she can learn the southern customs there.”

Catelyn nods, because he expects this from her. However, she does not think being a northerner is a problem that has to be solved. After all, the King wants Eddard Stark’s daughter for his son. And Eddard Stark’s daughter is a daughter of the North.

“Sansa will grow up in Winterfell,” Catelyn declares. She has not given an answer yet. Still, Petyr is already planning to take her child. 

He bows his head. “If you wish that way.” 

Catelyn wishes Sansa to wed to a northern lord but it seems that is not a possibility anymore. However, she will cling to every concession she can gain.

“I find she is very close to her siblings,” Petyr notes. “I saw her often with Lord Eddard’s son as well.”

Her siblings _and_ Lord Eddard’s son. The differentiation is too obvious to be unintended. 

“Sansa has a good heart,” Catelyn replies. “She is kind to everyone no matter what they were born as.”

“Useful virtue for a queen.”

Petyr tries to push her again to accept the betrothal. She cannot say ‘no’ but she is unable to say ‘yes’ now.

“It’s amusing…” 

Catelyn looks up at him with curiosity. Petyr’s eyes are sparkling as if he is about to tell her a joke.

“That boy, the bastard. He is so similar to your late husband. Any lord who doesn’t know your son would easily believe _he_ is the Lord of Winterfell.”

“Every lord in the North knows my son,” Catelyn says coolly. 

Softly, Petyr chuckles. “Of course, of course. I was just musing aloud. Please forget it.”

But he does not want her to forget, does he? If he did, he would have not said it. 

So why? Why did he feel that was necessary to share with those thoughts her? What is his real purpose?

She stands up from her chair, so Petyr has to as well. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find Sansa and tell her the King’s proposal.” 

*

Several days later they stand near the gate and say farewell. Petyr takes her hand in his own.

“I wish I could stay longer. But the realm calls for me.”

“It’s a miracle they can spare you at all.”

Petyr’s expression is rather conceited than proud.

Catelyn glances aside where Robb pretends that he does not look at them but grooms his horse before riding. Jon is with him, naturally.

Petyr follows her gaze.

“I’m very grateful for your warning. You reminded me that I have to be much more careful. For the sake of my family.”

He smiles gently. “All I care about is your best interest, dear Catelyn.”

“I know.”

“As regards to _my proposal_ to you, if you changed your mind…”

“My decision is the same.”

“For now.” His smile is hopeful.

_Forever._ But she does not say the word. Petyr would not accept it anyway.

She allows him to kiss her cheek, then, watches as he mounts and with his attendants rides through the gate. 

And when he is finally outside the walls of Winterfell, Catelyn feels relieved. 

Maybe it is true. Maybe Petyr cares about her. But only her, the Catelyn who he imagines for himself, who he wants her to be. Who she will never become. 

But he does not understand it.

She turns to return to the castle. The boys pay real attention to their horses now. 

Petyr does not understand.

Jon is one of them. 

Petyr is more a stranger than a friend after all these years.

So Catelyn has to be careful with him.


	25. Swords and plays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.
> 
> **298 AC**

Catelyn walks alongside the parapet when the sound of swords clashing reaches her. She goes closer, then, she stops. Down at the courtyard Robb and Jon are practicing. Catelyn used to come here sometimes to check up on Bran’s and Arya’s progress. But she has not had time to watch the two oldest for… actually, she does not even know how long. Maybe for months. 

Now, looking at Robb and Jon, she must smile.

They are nearly grown men with real blades in their hands – playing one of their old childhood games.

“I’m Ser Duncan the Tall,” Robb shouts.

“I’m Florian the Fool,” Jon replies.

Robb is quite good but Jon is better, more talented. While Catelyn is standing there, he defeats Robb almost every time. 

But it is fine. Robb has to remember that he can encounter someone more skillful, more experienced any time. Catelyn hopes that Jon keeps that in mind too and his victories do not make him conceited. 

She also hopes that none of them will have to face a true enemy in a true fight, but that is hardly possible. The world – their world – does not work that way.

Ser Rodrik calls out to the boys to take a break when Maester Luwin steps to her with a piece of parchment in his hand. 

“A message came, my lady. A deserter was caught.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have changed at the Wall since Benjen and Catelyn’s agreement. But the three strongholds (Castle Black, Eastwatch and Shadowtower) still follow the old ways. Criminals can be sent there and the vows must be hold. So there are deserters too. Like Gared.


	26. The pack

Robb is very quiet since the beheading. Jon is thinking whether he also has the deserter’s words on his mind.

Maybe he does not, because when his brother finally starts speaking, he brings up a different topic.

“One more year and Bran comes with us.”

“Indeed,” Jon replies.

“One more year and I will hold Ice in my hands.”

“Do you worry about it?” 

“I will do what I have to.” Robb does not look at him but straight ahead. “I’m worried about what if I don’t know what I have to do.” 

Of course, questions like this weigh down him. Robb is almost fifteen, and he makes more and more decisions on his own.

“Did you believe him?” he asks. “The deserter.”

“No.” But Jon is not sure and it seems Robb knows that. It seems he feels the same.

“He did believe what he saw.”

“That doesn’t make it true.” 

Robb nods but he is clearly lost in his thoughts. 

In any other time, Jon would offer him to race through the wood to brighten his mood. But for _Lord Stark_ who has just returned from an execution, that would seem highly inappropriate. 

Suddenly, Robb rises in the saddle and strains his eyes.

“Jon, look, on the road. What’s that?”

*

Catelyn crosses her arms.

“I want an explanation.”

In front of her Jon stands, and between them on the floor in a basket there are two wolf pups. One of them is black like the starless night, the other is white as the snow.

Jon takes a deep breath and tells her everything about the dead direwolf and the stag and the pups. 

“Hullen was about to kill them, but I said…” He shrugs. “The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark. It didn’t feel right to finish them off with Stark swords.”

Catelyn sighs edgily. It is nothing but a silly superstition. However… it is better to be careful. 

“And there were five of them,” Jon continues. “So Robb and I thought we could give the rest to Bran and the girls.”

Robb and he simply would have liked to keep the pups and on the way home they fabricated some excuses for doing do. 

“I see two direwolves,” she notes.

Jon glances at the basket as well.

“We… _I_ found the white one little further. I heard his whimpering while riding across the bridge and I couldn’t leave him behind.”

Of course not.

Catelyn sighs again.

“Well, your fault, your responsibility.” 

In fact, it is Jon _and_ Robb’s fault. But taking care of just one pup demands huge amount of time which Robb barely has. Taking care of two is unimaginable for him. For Jon, however…

Catelyn gestures to the pups. “Take them.”

Jon nods and quickly picks up the basket. He cannot hide his smile, obviously he does not even try. The same smile that – Catelyn presumes – she will see on the others’ faces too.


	27. His lordship comes home

Lord Stannis returned home a moon ago and he declared that he wished to stay. Since then, Theon has spent every free minute of his in the lord’s solar or in the Chamber of the Painted Table, because…

“You’ll become Lord of the Iron Islands one day,” Stannis Baratheon said on the first occasion.

And he was the kind of man with whom Theon did not want to disagree. 

“You have to learn how the politics of Westeros works.”

So Theon is sitting there while Lord Stannis and the constantly scowling Ser Axell are talking, while Lord Stannis reads and writes his letters, while he just stares out the window, or maybe he is forming plans in his mind.

Theon is listening and learning… and he is bored. Mostly bored. 

Lord Stannis was enraged when he arrived at Dragonstone. _Our is the fury_ , as the words of House Baratheon said. And he definitely embraced that fury in those days. 

“Robert wanted to give that damned chain to _Renly_. Mainly to avoid having to give it to me.” 

But for now the fury turns to bitterness. 

“Ser Kevan is an acceptable choice the position of the Hand,” he admits feigning indifference, when a raven comes with the announcement from the capital. “He is nothing more than his brother’s mouthpiece, but he is capable of doing what Jon Arryn did.”

_And he is not Renly, at least_ , Theon adds in thought.

“He will hold the realm together for me.”

Surprised, Theon jerks up his head.

“For you?” He cannot help it, the question slips out of his mouth. 

Ser Axell glares at him. He is even less thrilled about Theon’s presence than Theon himself. Unfortunately, none of them can get Lord Stannis to change his mind. Though Theon would not even dare to try to. 

“I’m Robert’s heir.” Lord Stannis states somehow challenging.

Because of the tone, Theon must reply. “After Joffrey and his siblings,” he says squirming. It feels as if Lord Stannis is testing him. 

And it feels like he has failed. The lord’s expression shows that it was the wrong thing to say. 

But how could it be?


	28. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“Something bothers you.” It is a statement, not a question.

Bran cannot deny it.

“It’s about him.” He brushes his direwolf’s head and the pup bites at his fingers playfully. “I cannot find the perfect name.”

They are sitting on a bench under the wall, enjoying the warmth of the sun; it is a rare pleasure nowadays. 

“Must it be perfect?” Catelyn asks.

“The others’ names are,” Bran says with honest convincement. “Arya just looked at Nymeria and knew that she is Nymeria. Sansa was the same with Lady. Robb and Jon as well.”

Catelyn leans forward and reaches out to fondle the pup. “Don’t you have any name on your mind when you look at your wolf?”

“There are _a lot_ of names, but none of them feels good enough.”

Suddenly, the pup turns from them with an enthusiastic bark. Clearly, he has found something more exciting. 

Robb and Jon are in a hurry to Ser Rodrik. Grey Wind runs forward over and over again, then, returns to Robb. Ghost and Storm are frisking around Jon’s feet. It is a miracle that he does not fall on his face because of them.

After his brothers leave, the dire wolf nuzzles Bran’s legs again. When he looks up at them, his eyes are shining gold like the sun above the sky. 

Bran is smiling with joy. Triumphantly. 

“Winter is coming, right?”

“Winter is always coming. Only sometimes it’s closer.”

“And our words remind us of that.”

Catelyn nods. “Yes, they do.”

“He will be Summer then,” Bran announces, “to remind me that every winter ends once.”


	29. Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“It was all my fault. Mine alone.”

Jon declares this immediately when the door is shut behind them. He kept silent all the way from the stables just like Catelyn. 

She would like to believe him – it would be so much easier if she could believe him –, but she knows better. She knows Jon better. And the girl too.

“You’re lying.”

“I am not.” He glances at her, and surrenders. “Sorry.”

“How many times have you already done that same _mistake_?”

“Twice. First on my nameday. She said it was a gift. Then the day after. And this morning.”

His face, his eyes… are full of shame and guilt. To Catelyn’s satisfaction. At least, he feels and understands the weight of his actions.

Kissing a girl… there is nothing bad about that. Usually.

Kissing their own steward’s daughter, however, can have consequences.

If anyone else steps in that stable… Although, Ghost and Storm hardly would have allowed _anyone_ there, but, of course, they did not stop her.

“It cannot happen again.”

He does not respond immediately, but it does not matter. Only one answer can be acceptable and they both know it. 

“It won’t, Lady Catelyn.”


	30. Nonbeliever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Lady Melisandre of Asshai is the most beautiful woman Theon has ever seen. Which does not say much, considering he has spent the last eight years of his life locked in Dragonstone. Still, she is radiant and enthralling like candlelight for a fly. Theon knows what fate comes with that, and he does not want to be a fly. 

It is not so easy though. A candle cannot go to the reluctant fly, but Melisandre comes to him one day.

Her lips, her eyes, her touch… all are full of promises, sweet as honey, heated as fire. She clings close to him. Her hair is glowing in the light of the setting sun and she smells like spices and flowers, seas of them, like the summer the eastern shores can bring. 

Theon would step back but there is nowhere to, he stands by the Painted Table already. So he only catches her hand to stop her.

“I’m not interested,” he tells her but he does not need Melisandre’s amused face to know that he did not sound convincing at all.

“Your body speaks otherwise,” she coos.

“Maybe. But I make the decisions. And you… you are owned by a god.”

“I’m a priestess, not a septa,” Melisandre points out. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Her smile becomes mocking, one full of disbelief. “Are you afraid that the fake god of yours, the Drowned, would disapprove? Your faith in him is so strong?”

“I have no faith in him. But I know he exists. He tried to kill me when I was thirteen.”

Because she draws back from him, Theon could step aside without impolitely pushing her.

“I vowed then that I’d keep myself away from all the gods and their puppets.”

Melisandre raises her nicely curved eyebrows. “Is that what I am? A puppet in my god’s hands?”

“Offending you wasn’t my intention, my lady.” 

“But you meant it.”

“I did.”

“It wasn’t my Lord who hurt you,” Melisandre reminds him. “He is not your enemy.”

“I didn’t think the Drowned was my enemy, or reckoned myself as his enemy, and still…” He shrugs. “If the Drowned God is real, any of them can be real. Each of them. The old, the new, the one with those many faces… your Light Lord. In that case, it’s better to avoid any connection with them, so it’s better to avoid you.”

After a bow, he is about to leave.

“The Lord of Light,” Melisandre says irritated, raising her voice.

Theon turns at the door and bows again. 

“Right, of course. My apologies.”


	31. Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“You lied to me.” 

“I… Yes. But I didn’t intend to.”

“That’s not an excuse, Jon,” Catelyn snaps at him.

She flops down into a chair and gestures to Jon to sit as well. He confessed what he did, at least. Still, he did those things and lied about it. For moons. 

“I know what is said about bastards’ nature,” he says quietly. “But it’s not lust. I love her. I respect her. I would never bring shame on her.”

“Respect? Is that what you’re calling the way you treated her? You say you would never bring shame on her. But you did. It’s exactly what you did.”

Shame on Jeyne. And shame on himself.

He is about to open his mouth to speak but he changes his mind and only nods. Because it does not matter that no one knows, save for Catelyn, it happened – with every kiss and every secret meeting. 

“After you promised me to make an end of it.”

“I tried.”

“You didn’t try _hard enough_ ,” Catelyn replies, her voice is accusatory and bitter.

She is angry. She does not even remember which child angered her this much last time. Maybe none of them. And Jon makes it worse with each of his words. 

He is the one who breaks the silence. 

“I persuaded myself that there was no harm in talking to her amongst proper circumstances or spending time near her when she was with others. But…”

But proper circumstances turned to improper ones and those others vanished from their side. Catelyn can see it very clearly.

“I know that it’s impossible. I knew all this time.”

“Why then?”

Jon shrugs. “I pretended. _We_ pretended that it can be otherwise.”

_Oh, Seven have mercy._ He is not just imaging himself in love, he is. 

But how far did they go in that pretending? Jon did not offer her marriage. He could not have done it. 

And her? What is she supposed to do now? 

She would like to embrace him to give some comfort. But what comfort? And how, when another part of her just wants to slap him, although she has never felt the urge to do such a thing before.

She is not able to stay sitting down. As soon as she stands up, Jon follows her example. 

“Robb leaves to White Harbor tomorrow morning. You will accompany him.”

Jon nods. “As you wish, my lady.” He slightly frowns then. “I didn’t know Robb is going to visit Lord Manderly.”

Because Robb did not know either. Catelyn just decided a moment before. 

“His lordship calls him from time to time.”

That is actually true. 

“And now get out of my sight.”

Jon bows and leaves the room.


	32. The steward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“My lady…”

Vayon Poole looks very embarrassed, fighting the words. Words of refusal, apparently.

“I like that boy. I really do. But he is…”

The word hangs between them heavily.

“He is not your son,” he says finally.

“But he is the son of Lord Eddard.”

Vaynon Poole is squirming in his chair, but nods.

“What would you say if Lord Eddard asked for the same?” Catelyn asks.

“Would he ask for this?”

_For the gods’ sake! I don’t know._ She has been thinking for so many times, for so many fruitless hours what Ned would have planned for Jon.

But there could not be doubt about one thing. 

“My lord husband wanted to raise him as a nobleman.”

“Perhaps only so he can join the Night’s Watch like his uncle did.”

“No.”

Or maybe ‘yes’, but Jon will not join the Watch. She would not allow that, neither will Robb. Besides, he does not want to. He did not want even before Jeyne. They have not spoken about it since that day eight years ago, but Catelyn _knows_.

There are other options though. With time, he could get a holdfast. There are abandoned castles in the North, long ruined places, strongholds belonging to no one. Jon was taught as a lord, it would be easy to make him one. 

She says this to Vayon Poole. 

“Lord Snow?” he asks in a dubious voice. “I wouldn’t demand much from the man who weds my daughter, I couldn’t even do that, but I expect him to be able to give a proper name to Jeyne.”

“It’s not much, indeed. But what does matter more? A name or being loyal and kind?”

Vayon Poole offers a sad smile. “I know what the boy is like. I know it very well. But tell me this, Lady Stark! Would you choose someone without a name for your daughters? Of course, they’re more important to the North, but if you were a lady of a minor house like mine, would you accept a bastardborn for your children?”

Catelyn does not reply just sends him away until she can do it calmly. 

After Vayon Poole leaves the solar, she leaps up from her chair. Pacing helps her to overcome her emotions, helps her to think. She _must_ think.

Rationally she understands Vayon Poole’s arguments, moreover, she would even go that far that she agrees with them. But, beyond all rational consideration, she is offended. How does a steward dare to refuse a Stark? 

Except… She stops. Except Jon is not a Stark.

He shares their blood, shares their joy, their pain, their fights, but not their name.

A name, however, can be changed. 

Catelyn sits back. Then, she takes a parchment and starts writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon could take the Poole name, but after what Vayon said, Catelyn thought it would be useless to mention that version.


	33. Embroidery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

_To His Grace Robert from House Baratheon, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm_

_My King,  
I appeal to you with a request…_

A request for which most people – if not every one of them – will think she was out of her mind. Catelyn does not care. This will be her last significant act as the Lady of the North. Just a little more than two month from now, and Robb takes charge and every duty of Lord Stark.

_… I believe my lord husband wanted the same._

It can even be true. ‘He is a Stark.’ Ned told her so many times that night, before he died. He could have meant that way. She does not know. She _cannot_ know. But it does not matter anymore what Ned wanted to say or do because he did not do anything in the end. It matters what _Catelyn_ wants and feels right.

_… He reckoned Jon Snow as a Stark and so do I…_

Yes. _Yes_ , she does. So no one can see him less than that.

_Your faithful servant,  
Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell_

The raven flew away days ago and now Catelyn has to wait. Only another wait in the long line of waiting of her life.

And keeping her hands busy helps to soothe her thoughts. It has always helped her. 

She finds a piece of fabric. From the rest of it she made tunics for the boys and Arya and sewed trimming to one of Sansa’s gowns. It is smoke-grey and smooth like the freshly fallen snow. She threads the needle and starts embroidering, humming silently.

She makes a white wolf with red eyes. When she is finished, she looks thoughtfully at her work. It is an inverse of the House Stark’s coat of arms. A bastard’s coat of arms. But it says a little about Jon.

So Catelyn hums and sews on, a black wolf with green eyes above the first one.

When the picture is complete, she puts the hoop down. 

Jon’s whole past is in it. And maybe his future as well.

Catelyn sighs deeply. She can only hope that her letter had reached the King before he met that boar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! :-)


	34. Sword from the flames

Theon is not a follower of the Seven – or any god –, but the sight of the burning statues still bothers him. They were old and beautiful, witnesses of the Targaryens’ rise and fall. Generations of men and women knelt before them and prayed to them only to be sacrificed to a new, more demanding god.

Almost everyone from the castle is on the shore. Theon watches the ritual with Davos, staying close to Lady Selyse and Shireen. Shireen’s eyes are wide, she looks frightened, but her mother’s gaze is shining like the flames. On the other side of the fire, Theon sees Vollys, Perra and their children. Light and shadow are dancing on the man’s painted face. 

“Lord, cast your light upon us!” Melisandre cries.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” Lady Selyse and most of the men chants the words. 

Theon keeps silent. Just like Davos. 

It seems it is over, so Davos goes to his son, Daven. As for Theon, however, Stannis waves him to himself.

The new sword he pulled out from the Mother’s heart is in his hand. 

“Lightbringer,” he holds it up. “The Red Sword of Heroes as the legends called it. What do you think?” 

Now, being within reach, the sword’s glow is blinding but Theon does not feel any heat. 

“It’s quite impressive, my lord… my king, I mean,” he says.

Stannis narrows his eyes.

“Impressive, _but_?”

Theon shrugs.

“I saw a man at the siege of Pyke with a flaming sword. I just expected it to be something similar.”

Stannis sheathes Lightbringer and immediately the night becomes much darker.

“That’s no more than a trick, as I heard. My sword carries the power of a god.”

“I’m aware of what Lady Melisandre said, but… I beg your pardon, my king, I don’t believe one sword will win you the war, be it ever so pretty.”

Stannis frowns.

“Lady Melisandre said more than you can be aware of. She promised me that this _pretty_ sword will bring others to me, thousands of them.” 

Actually, Theon knows that. Poor, old Maester Cressen told him about it, on the day he died. 

“How, Your Grace? If you fight under R’hllor’s mark, you will fight against not just the throne but every person in the kingdoms who follows the old and new gods.” Maybe he should shut his mouth, but once he started, he could not stop. “R’hllor can’t give you what isn’t his own. So how will he bring to you armies?”

Stannis’ expression is always emotionless, but now even the rocks of Dragonstone looks more lively compared to his face. Before he could reply, Melisandre calls for him.

“My King! For a word.”

Stannis turns to Theon once again.

“I appreciate you sharing your doubts with me. I shall keep them in mind.”

He leaves then, but Theon does not stay alone for long, because Vollys steps to him with his family. He glances aside where lady Melisandre stands by the statues’ smoldering remains.

“You shouldn’t speak like that near her,” he notes in a low voice. “I knew some red priests in Essos. You can end up on a pyre easily.”

Theon gives him an amused smile. 

“Patchface also promised me that.”

“Don’t you think that just in this matter you should listen to him?” 

“He promised me a lot of other forms of death too. But I can die only one way, can’t I?”

“And better be this one?” Vollys sighs and shakes his head. “Just… watch your tongue. Please.”


	35. Coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy New Year :-)**

After the crowd that assembled to welcome them slowly returned to their duties, the one whom Jon wanted to meet the most steps to two of them. 

She arrived with the Starks and she managed to remain behind while the others left the courtyard.

“Lord Stark. Jon. I’m happy you came home.”

Robb’s name she pronounces courteously. His name, however, sounds like a confession, like hundreds of other unspeakable words.

“Lady Jeyne,” Robb greets her.

“Lady Jeyne,” Jon echoes while Ghost and Storm do what he cannot, and run to her. 

Jeyne is careful as always. She looks at Robb and smiles at him, but Jon knows that every joyous look and every smile and the blush on her cheeks is for him. 

“We missed Winterfell,” he says, hoping Jeyne will understand.

Unfortunately, Robb does as well.

“That’s true,” he confirms in a teasing voice. “Jon didn’t talk about anything else but _Winterfell_ during these weeks. Although we saw lots of beauty in White Harbor. Such an exciting place, right, Jon?”

Now, Jeyne turns to Jon and raises her eyebrows.

“Oh, _really_?” Her eyes are laughing.

“I wasn’t fascinated by it,” Jon replies with a dry smile. 

Actually, Robb was not fascinated by it either. Undoubtedly, the town by the sea and the port’s varied folk were interesting, and interpreting the hidden shades and meanings of Lord Manderly’s words amused them. For a while. 

But by the time the news of the King’s death had arrived, both of them were fed up with White Harbor. 

“I have to go,” Jeyne realizes suddenly, frightened. “Surely, Lady Sansa and Lady Arya are already waiting for me. Septa Mordane doesn’t like it if any of us are late.”

“I would take it to my heart if you got into trouble because of us. Maybe we can accompany you on your way though.” Robb suggests. “If you agree, brother.”

“It’s very kind of you, Lord Stark,” Jeyne curtsies.

“Yes, very kind, Lord Stark,” Jon mumbles.

But his tone does not fool Robb. Jon is grateful to him, truly, and he knows that.

“My lady mother would like to hear everything about our journey. Forthwith. It’s better not to make her wait.” Robb gestures towards the entrance of the castle. “Only after you, my lady.”

He lets not just Jeyne but Jon as well go in the hallways before himself. They are walking close to each other, closer than they have to, closer than they should and the back of their hands are touching from time to time.

And after all, Lady Catelyn must wait, because the sewing chamber is in the opposite direction to the solar.


	36. Only words

When Catelyn sends for Jon, she does not expect him to appear in her solar’s door so quickly. Winterfell is in a fever of preparation since news arrived about the ironborn raiding the Rills and the Stony Shore. Robb has just returned home, but he has to leave again. And Jon goes with him, without any command or request, as always.

“Come in,” Catelyn invites him. Obviously, he thinks she would like to speak about the supplies or the horses, perhaps the time of their departure. They have exchanged only a few words recently – politely, keeping their distance. 

“I want to show you something.”

Two things, actually. There are in her hands.

One of them is a parchment. A royal decree. 

It was brought not by a raven but a messenger and came three days after Jon and Robb’s arrival.

“As duty demands, I already informed Robb about what it says.”

The other one is the coat of arms she embroidered weeks ago. Though she added an inscription to it since then: _House Stark of Moat Cailin_.

Robb agreed with her when Catelyn told him.

Westeros is at war now and Moat Cailin can be the key of defending the North. Though it must be repaired and strengthened as soon as possible. 

Catelyn gives both items to Jon.

He pales and his hand quivers. He stares at them as if he were enchanted. He looks at Catelyn then, in the same way.

“I…” Jon tries with words and fails.

So he does something what he did very rarely even in his childhood, and only when Catelyn made the first move, as if giving him permission. He embraces her and she feels heated tears on her skin. But when Jon steps back, his face is already dry, just his eyes shine more than usually.

Catelyn does not know what to say. Maybe she is supposed to explain it to him… But for that, she would need words. 

In the silence, Jon suddenly kneels before her.

“To Winterfell I pledge the faith of Moat Cailin. Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, my lady. My sword and spear and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to weak, help to helpless, and justice to all, and I shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire.”*

Finally, Catelyn finds her voice. She clears her throat. 

“I accept your oath. Rise, Jon Stark.”

He stands up with a light, blissful smile on his face.

“You should have said these words to Robb,” Catelyn notes.

“I wanted to say them to you. But, of course, I will tell Robb them as well.”

_Those words._ They sounded familiar. Like an old – very old – half-forgotten memory.

“Jon.”

He stops at the door and turns to her.

“Where did that oath come from?” It seemed learnt not something he thought up in the moment.

“Maester Luwin’s lessons. The crannogmen swore fealty to the Starks with that oath. It’s as ancient as the North.”

This should be it. Surely, she heard it from one of the children when they got to know the North’s history.

Catelyn nods, letting him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*** A Clash of Kings**_ **, Chapter 21** (with some small changes)


	37. No one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

The sky above Dragonstone is clouded with the promise of a storm. Theon would be more pleased with a sunny day but the autumn does not show mercy. 

Just like… _No_ , it is too early to think of that. Or too late.

Shireen stands beside him on the wall and they watch the surging sea together. At least, Theon watches the sea. Shireen, obviously, watches him.

“I don’t want you to die.” 

“I don’t want that either, little lady, believe me.” Theon looks at her and gives the girl a faint smile. “Unfortunately, it’s not your decision or mine but our fathers’. And _my father_ has already made his choice.”

Stubbornly, Shireen shakes her head.

“It’s not your fault that he rebelled against the crown. He should be punished for it, not you.”

“He will be punished. With my death.” 

“But he does not care.” 

“Apparently not.”

And that hurts. Even after all these years. He never loved his father – not the way Daven loved Davos – and, no doubt, his father did not love him either. But they share the same flesh and blood. It should matter, should it not? 

Theon sighs. If it has to happen… well, he tries to be calm and brave. For Shireen. For himself.

“Beheading is not a bad way to die anyway,” he notes. “It’s quick. Clean.”

“But it’s still dying.” 

He cannot say anything to that. 

He would like to stay with Shireen for a while longer – forever –, but Ser Axell comes for him. He seems angry that he had to look for Theon.

“Greyjoy. To the King.”

Clearly, Theon does not obey quickly enough, because Ser Axell turns back and snaps at him.

“Move.”

*

Years ago in Winterfell Lord Stark found him to be at the proper age to accompany him when he did justice. Theon saw men who accepted their deaths with a sort of quiet decorum, and saw others who were begging and cursing and struggling. 

He knows whose example he wants to follow and he hopes he will be able to say farewell that way. 

When he enters the King’s solar, Stannis waves him to sit. 

Theon tries to draw himself up as much as possible. But it only helps a little, because his face is pale as the sheet on his bed. 

“After the Greyjoy Rebellion, my brother, the king sentenced you to die if your family took up arms against the crown again. And he made the execution my duty, and I was ready to comply…” Stannis takes a break, short as a heartbeat. “But _I’m_ the king now.”

Theon jerks up his head. 

“And I believe taking your head would serve only your father. So allowing you to keep it will serve me.” His voice becomes solemn, almost theatrical, but that is not unusual for him nowadays. “Prove that I’m right, prove that you are worth more alive to me, and when I gain the throne, I will reward you with your ancestors’ lands.”

Theon is unable to think, so he says what comes to his mind first. He says what the reality is.

“My life has been yours for years, my king, and it will always be. I couldn’t expect anything in return. I won’t either.”

Stannis’ expression does not change but he seems content with Theon’s answer. 

“Very well. For now, return to your tasks.”

Feeling dizzy, Theon stands up, and with unsteady steps he leaves the solar while the whole world is swirling around him.


	38. Breach of trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

The company that King Joffrey sent to escort his bride to King’s Landing could be called a proper one… But only if Catelyn looks at the position they hold, not their character. After all, the members of the Kingsguard are considered the brightest knights of the Seven Kingdoms. These two, however, are a great disappointment for all of them. Ser Meryn Trant’s civility is close to roughness. Ser Arys Oakheart seems easy-mannered and chivalrous but treats every person older than him and everything that comes from north to the Reach with a kind of supremacy. 

And their leader… well, he is definitely part of the royal family, but Catelyn has her doubts about what kind of part that is. At least, Arya and Bran are intrigued that they can meet the famous – or rather infamous – Imp. And, truth to be told, Catelyn herself is relieved that Petyr did not come. She would not have the patience to talk about the possibility of her future marriage.

Especially now, when Sansa’s future marriage gives her more than enough reason to worry.

“That’s not what we agreed on with Lord Baelish,” she says.

“The King’s will supersedes the promises of Lord Baelish,” Ser Meryn replies.

“He spoke in the name of the King.”

“But we have a new King now.” 

“Yes, we have,” Lord Tyrion speaks up in a warning tone and, Catelyn notices, with a little enthusiasm. 

Grimacing, Ser Meryn clenches his jaws and allows the lord to talk.

“My nephew is eager to see his bride. Since his journey in the North, Lord Baelish has praised Lady Sansa’s beauty and…”

“Your nephew fights a war against his uncles,” Catelyn cuts in, “and apparently, King’s Landing is a main target for both of them. Would you declare that it would be safe for my daughter?

“The city’s defense is my lord father’s responsibility, _of course_ it is safe there.”

“Not as much as Winterfell.” 

“Lady Stark…” 

Catelyn clings to a last objection to save time. 

“My son is the head of our house. Sansa cannot go anywhere until he returns.”

“It could take weeks,” Ser Meryn protests.

“And we will wait for it gladly,” Lord Tyrion assures her with an ingratiating smile.

“My lord…”

“Ser Meryn. If we weren’t dispensable, we wouldn’t be here.” Glancing at Catelyn, his smile lights up again and it feels falser than before. “I’m sure we will enjoy Winterfell’s hospitality.”

*

Even Sansa is more upset than happy after Ser Arys notes that a direwolf will cause a huge sensation in the court and he is snapped at by Ser Meryn who says, ‘There is no place for such a beast in the court.’

“If Lady stays, I will stay too,” Sansa declares later hugging her wolf fiercely.

Catelyn sighs. She wants them to stay too, at least until the end of war, but that will be another day’s concern. They will still have time to find a solution before Robb arrives.

*

Catelyn is out of bed and on her feet before she is fully awake and before she would realize that the screams do not come from a dream. 

She does not think just runs. 

The door of Sansa’s chamber is open. Catelyn has to push Nymeria away and pull the terrified, wide-eyed Arya out of her way. 

The chamber shows the signs of scrimmage. The bed where Sansa should be is empty, the pillows and blankets are thrown on the floor.

And beside the bed a dead man lays. He is covered in blood. Unrecognizable, save for the once white cloak he is wearing. 

Sansa stands above him, pale and shaking. A dark bruise flowers on her left cheek. She is tousled and her temple smeared with blood. The attacker could have torn some of her hair. 

Sansa looks up at her mother without blinking.

“Lady killed him,” she says, her voice is strangely calm. 

Catelyn enters and he glances at the direwolf. She is snarling at someone who is huddling up in the corner. Arys Oakheart. So the other one must be Ser Meryn. 

Catelyn’s face hardens. 

She steps to Sansa and embraces her tightly. 

“Lady did well.”

*

The great hall of Winterfell is cold. Nothing remained from the warmness of last evening’s feast. 

Catelyn ordered to lay the fire in the hearths but they still do not give heat, only light.

Their clothing is highly inappropriate. Neither Catelyn, nor her children have changed their night-robes and Lord Tyrion, who was drawn out of a brothel, is half dressed. His pants and shirt are crumpled. His tunic and coat… he did not even manage to put those on. 

He looks miserable, deep wrinkles sit on his forehead. It seems he does not understand what is happening. Or he pretends he does not, skillfully.

Anyway, Catelyn has to ask, “Did you know about this?”

“No, I swear.”

Catelyn turns to Ser Arys. Nursing his wounded arm, he does not dare to look at anyone.

“Would you have left him behind?”

“We knew he went to Wintertown. Ser Meryn said, after getting the girl, we could pick him up.”

“Because I would never agree to this madness or allow it. And you shouldn’t have either.” Now, he is furious – and desperate. 

“My duty is doing what my King commands me to and not questioning it.” 

“How comfortable,” Lord Tyrion notes with disdain. “And what if the King is a…” But he does not finish. 

Catelyn presumes certain things cannot be said about kins.

“Did you forget about Lady?”

“ _Fools_ ,” Arya hisses. 

Although she is right, Catelyn waves her to keep quiet. 

Ser Arys shakes his head.

“No, but we are knights…” 

This time Bran snorts. 

“And that is just an animal. A… tame one, we believed.” It feels like he means not only Lady but Sansa too.

“She is a direwolf,” Sansa says, her voice is grim and proud. Half of Lady’s left ear is missing, Sansa herself cared for the wound.

Ser Arys stares at them with animosity. And fear.

“You broke the guest right when you attacked my daughter under our roof.” They want her as a hostage, no doubt, to force the Starks to obey them if they need to. She takes a deep breath. “Despite the King’s acts and yours, House Stark is loyal to the crown. But from this moment on I consider the marriage arrangement between my daughter and Joffrey Baratheon invalid.”

Lord Tyrion bows his head.

“Understandable choice, my lady.”

Catelyn turns to the guards who stand by the wall. 

“Lock them up.”


	39. So rebels?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos.

They barely dismount when Arya and Bran run towards them. 

“Robb. Jon,” Arya cries. Her face is shining, her smile is wild. “Have you heard? We are rebels now.”

Bran catches up with her, and stares disapprovingly.

“ _No_ , we are not. And mother asked you to stop saying that.”

“Quiet, silly. Don’t ruin it.”

Robb embraces her but his eyes search the castle. 

“Arya, where is Sansa?”

“With mother.” Arya steps back, her expression is serious now. “She is alright. Really. She is stronger than you would think.” 

“I know she is. But I want to see her.”

*

Catelyn is glad that she has Robb and Jon home, that she can see Sansa in her brothers’ arms. Safe. She has so many questions about the campaign’s success, about the fights, the first real ones of their life… but those have to wait. 

She holds a letter in her hand.

“King Joffrey confesses that he was so eager to meet his beautiful bride that he may have chosen his words improperly when he gave orders to his knights. He is begging for our forgiveness and ensures Sansa of his remorse and compassion… and so on. Not important.” Catelyn casts the letter aside, disgusted. “According to Lord Tyrion, Tywin Lannister dictated every single word of it. And I believe him.”

Now, Sansa speaks in a low voice. “He also said that King Joffrey doesn’t even know such things as remorse and compassion. And he certainly can’t feel them.” 

Catelyn nods and picks up another parchment. “What really matters though is this letter. Apparently, Lord Tywin didn’t trust that they could achieve anything with the first one.”

That Joffrey Baratheon’s word – prewritten for him or not – is worth anything. 

“He admits that he made a mistake when he didn’t pay close enough attention to what his grandson was doing and who had whispered advices into his ears. But he vows that it won’t happen again.”

“And what does he offer?” Robb asks sternly.

*

Standing in the centre of the Great Hall, Tyrion Lannister looks between Grey Wind, Ghost and Storm. 

“Ah, more wolves,” he says wearily. “And more Starks,” he adds glancing at Robb and Jon. “Such a pleasure.”

“I am Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Lord Tyrion bows.

“It’s an honor to meet you, my lord. Although, I would have been more pleased with a cheerful occasion.”

“So would I.”

“I suppose you made a decision in my case.”

Robb shows him the letter. Lord Tyrion saw the previous one but they have not spoken to him about that.

“Your father, the Lord Regent states that you are innocent in this _disgraceful affair_ … as he called it.” 

Lord Tyrion’s mouth twitches. “Refreshing change in his general opinion about me,” he replies in a bitter tone.

“King Joffrey and Ser Arys alone bear the responsibility,” Robb continues, reading the letter. “His Grace is young and reckless, but Lord Tywin will take care of him. On the other hand he gives the judgment of Ser Arys in our hands. He is released from service as a kingsguard.”

Though, if someone like Arys Oakheart or Meryn Trant could have been a member of it, the Kingsguard is rotten, with or without them. 

“In addition, he is planning on sending us forty thousand gold dragons as compensation for the crimes of Ser Arys and Ser Meryn.”

“Generous amount of money,” Lord Tyrion nods.

“I presume it’s a kind of ransom for your safe homecoming as well,” Robb notes.

The man looks up at him with curiosity. “Would you allow me to go home?” 

“I think I must.” He does not like it, but Lord Tywin suggests a reasonable compromise – as long as Tyrion Lannister proves innocent in the abduction. For now, it seems he is. Robb, however, has his doubts. He has doubts about all the Lannisters after what happened. “And when you arrive to your lord father,” he says, “please, tell him this: I hope he will triumph over his enemies and peace returns to the Seven Kingdoms. But I won’t lift a finger to help King Joffrey.”


	40. The Castellan of Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos.

They stand around the Painted Table. The King, the Hand… and Theon.

He only listens. He has no knowledge they do not have, or any experience to share. 

“We need a stronghold on the mainland.” Stannis points at a castle on the shore. „Storm’s End should have been mine by right. I’ll take it.”

Ser Axell shakes his head with worry.

“Our army is not large enough for this.”

“There is no need for an army, just some good men. And Ser Davos. He knows the secret routes into the castle.”

“Right.” Ser Axell does not like Davos more than he likes Theon. “And of course, you have to take Lady Melisandre as well.”

“Melisandre stays here,” the King declares.

Ser Axell raises his eyebrows. “My king, the powers she commands…”

“If I am unable to gain one castle without her and those powers, I am unworthy of ruling a whole realm.”

“Her god chose you as his champion. He would give you the victory if you…”

“I’ll take the victory on my own.” Stannis cuts in. “R’hllor can prove his support with something more significant, and then – only then – I will accept him and deal with his demands.”

Ser Axell stares at Theon. His eyes are full of hatred. He has heard him speaking about this enough times to know that Theon’s opinion echoes in the King’s words.

“Men serve gods and not the other way around,” he warns Stannis.

“ _He_ chose me, as you said,” Stannis reminds him. “ _You_ chose me as your king.”

Ser Axell draws himself and when he speaks – Theon must admit – he sounds perfectly sincere.

“I didn’t have to choose. You are the true king of Westeros.”

“I’m glad to hear that, my lord. You’ll accompany me.” 

Surprised, Ser Axell is about to protest, but the King continues.

“You’re my Hand. You have to be by my side. Our campaign doesn’t end in Storm’s End, we have a lot to do, my lord.”

Ser Axell could not argue with that – Theon even presumes he finds the statement flattering –, still, he frowns. 

“I’ll come with you. That smuggler of yours comes. Who do you entrust Dragonstone with? My nephew, Erren…”

“No.” Stannis does not say more, but his gaze fixes on Theon.

“Greyjoy?” Ser Axell pants for breath, scandalized. 

Theon is as shocked as him. They do not share the fury though. He only feels incomprehension.

“Lady Melisandre couldn’t take charge over Dragonstone,” Stannis replies. “Your nephew, however, would give it to her. Your niece, my lady wife, would give it to her. _You_ would give it to her.” He waves towards Theon. “He won’t.”

Balance, Theon realizes. The King needs him to compensate Melisandre’s influence. Her madness about prophesies and sacrifices.

What he wants is also madness, though. How could he be…? Nonsense. 

It is one of the rare occasions when Ser Axell and him stand on common ground.

“But… he is no one. He is nothing. He is not even the heir of Pyke anymore.”

It seems that the King considers this for a moment. He nods then.

“You’re right. He must have a title.” He turns back to Theon, drawing out Lightbringer. “Theon, to your knees.”


	41. An old knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“We’ll march to the North and raze their castle to the ground. I’ll take their heads and feed their wolves with their corpses.” The King is shouting and Lord Tywin allows it longer than Ser Barristan expected of him. 

It is only a small liberty though. The King has a say in few matters these days and is allowed to do even less. He spends most of his time in his chambers and only goes where his grandfather lets him – or orders him to – go to, and only talks whom his grandfather lets him talk to. 

Something happened in Winterfell. Ravens came and went. The betrothal between the King and Sansa Stark was broken. Meryn Trant and Arys Oakheart died. 

Ser Barristan does not know how or why, and he presumes he never will. His duty is to guard the King’s secrets, after all, not searching for them. 

“Forget the North,” Lord Tywin finally cuts in. “Forget the Starks.” He does not add ‘Your Grace’. He has not done it for weeks. “We don’t need them to gain the victory.”

“The only one who can boast any victory is my uncle, Stannis,” the King notes with malice in his voice. “He took Storm’s End. And you did what, grandfather?”

Queen Cersei pales. Lord Tyrion clenches his jaw. Both of them are unusually quiet nowadays. 

Any kind of lesson the King should have learnt, clearly he failed to.

“Even those traitorous Starks fought against the ironborn…”

“A wise man is able to be patient,” Lord Tywin warns him. “And a patient man has the privilege to be able to choose the battle that is the most advantageous for him.”

“What you consider wisdom and patience, I call weakness and cowardice.” 

“If so, child, be glad that I’m so weak and such a coward.” Lord Tywin turns to him. “Ser Barristan, it seems there is no need for my grandson’s presence. Escort him back to his chambers.”

*

After he locks the door of the King’s chamber and turns to go back to the council, he feels the weight of his age more than ever before. 

He is _old_. Too old and useless, according to the King. But he is still a knight, still the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Joffrey cannot cast him aside.

He accepted a long time ago that he would not again serve a ruler who is worthy. Aerys was mad, Robert negligent and Joffrey… Joffrey is noxious, although, he did not have the chance to show them how much and in what ways.

Barristan Selmy, however, made an oath. Perhaps it was not a good one, nor a clever one. But he said the words before gods and men and even if every person in the Seven Kingdoms becomes oath breaker, he will not. He did not when Aerys tormented his family, his realm. He did not when the last Targeryens were killed and banished. He chose this vow over all the others and he remains loyal to it. He protects his king to the end. 

But perhaps those who come after him will have more luck.


	42. Frogeaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

The Reeds – the Lord and Lady of Greywater Watch and their children – arrive on one of the rare sunny days. Robb both nervous and excited, but everything is perfect, everything goes as planned… until Meera and him suddenly stay alone in the courtyard.

Robb should talk to her. He knows it and he would like to, but he is unable to do anything. He has talked to girls before, of course. A lot of girls. But them, he did not have to marry. This girl, however, will be his lady wife within a month.

And Robb wants her to like him. He wants to impress her.

So it is rather annoying that just one question, a probably quite impolite question of Bran’s echoes in his mind:

‘Do they really eat frogs?’

But he cannot possibly broach a subject like that.

“What are you thinking about so deeply, my lord?”

“Frogs,” Robb replies in spite of his better judgement, and he regrets it immediately. 

Meera laughs out loud. “ _Frogs_?”

Robb smiles at her. “My brother, Bran, is very curious about whether you eat frogs at Greywater Watch.”

Actually, as a little boy he asked the same from Maester Luwin. And even earlier he also asked his father about it after he had heard about the Reeds and their swamp for the first time. 

“We do,” Meera declares still cheerfully. “We eat frogs. Sometimes.”

Now, Robb cannot help but press on.

“What do they taste like?” 

“Delicious, believe it or not… Though, it’s hard to explain. You should try it.”

There is something enticing in her voice. It is half teasing, half challenging – and it demands a response. 

“I would if you cooked some for me.”

“I would if _you_ caught some.” Meera raises her eyebrows.

“I don’t know how to catch frogs,” Robb admits.

Which is not quite true. As a child, he hunted frogs with Jon when the weather allowed for such activities. Robb remembers all too well how often they slipped in the mud and trudged home defeated and dirty up to their chin. And it was many years ago. He doubts he has become more skillful in the art of frog-catching since then. He does not want Meera to be a witness of his bungling.

“Let me teach you then.”

Though if that is her wish…

It is an improper way to spend time, especially for the Lord and the future Lady of Winterfell, but it sounds entertaining. And coming to know the real Meera feels much more important than keeping the rules of decency.

“Let’s do it.”


	43. Stolen moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Jon has seen a lot of celebrations in Winterfell. Feasts for honored guests, namedays… but this one, Robb’s wedding is something different. As if arrangements are never-ending. Moreover, it seems the less time remains, the more there is to do. 

Jeyne hurries somewhere with an armful of white fabrics when they meet. There is no surprise in that. Everyone hurries somewhere in these days. 

Jon stops her and draws with himself to a silent hallway. They have not even seen each other today.

“You can’t come closer,” Jeyne warns him, putting a hand on his chest. “These cannot be wrinkled.”

So Jon only leans closer to kiss her. It is more than nothing. Although, barely.

“Put them down,” he suggests.

Jeyne raises her eyebrows. “Have you lost your mind?”

True, there is no chair or table near. And even if it was, she probably would ask the same.

He spins her, embracing Jeyne from behind, taking care of the damned fabrics. 

He has to let her go very soon. Both of them have tasks, after all. Jon thinks, fortunately, that their wedding will be a more tranquil event. 

Reluctantly, Jeyne steps away from him. She cannot delay further. 

“I love you,” Jon says.

Jeyne turns back for a moment and smiles at him playfully. 

“Of course. What else could you do?”


	44. Lord and Lady Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

One of the bards – the one whose voice Sansa enjoys the most – starts playing _Fair Maids of Summer_. Arya, drawing behind Bran and her, watches everyone suspiciously who approaches them. She smiled and talked and danced heroically for hours, and now she thinks she made her duty.

Sansa would dance through the night – or until her mother allows her to stay – with great pleasure, but it is refreshing to have a rest and speak with her siblings.

By the high table, Lady Meera Stark is laughing loudly at something Robb told her. Apparently, they like each other. Although Robb does not treat her as a lord treats his lady. He behaves like this when he is with Jon or Jory or any other friend of his. 

Bran thinks the same.

“I like this more than whatever Jon and Jeyne do,” he notes. “That’s odd and scary.”

“And gross,” Arya adds grimacing and Bran nods in approval.

Sansa does not agree with them but she decides it is better to not voice her opinion. When Arya and Bran become older, they will understand anyway. Though, she dreamed about love already at their age. And she dreams about love now. 

But she cannot immure herself from reality – as Mother has often warned her. That amicability and easiness between Robb and Meera is a very good but probably very rare beginning for a marriage. 

Sansa must feel herself lucky if she finds something similar. 

And speaking about that… Looking around again, her gaze is almost as suspicious as Arya’s. 

One of these northern boys who take her for a dance tonight will be her lord husband. It is possible that Mother and Robb have already known which one. 

But maybe not. Maybe they will ask her too.

She smiles and gives her hand to Torrhen Karstark bowing before her.


	45. Enemy beyond the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Catelyn is weary but content – and she will be perfectly happy as soon as she can finally put down her head on the pillows. But when she enters her chamber, someone grabs her from behind, forcing her arms down, and a rough hand covers her mouth. 

“I’ll release you,” a voice whispers into her ear. “Don’t cry.”

As the grip looses, Catelyn steps away in a hurry, and spins around. The man holds up his hands with palms open, showing that he is unarmed. Though Catelyn is sure he has at least a knife, hidden somewhere. 

He is a slender man, barely taller than her, has long brown hair turning to gray. Catelyn realizes she has seen him before. He is one of the bards from the feast.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says severely, trying to seem calm, although she is trembling.

“No, I shouldn’t,” he admits. “But I must speak with you, Lady Stark. My name is Mance Rayder.”

Catelyn’s eyes widen, she inhales sharply.

“The king of wildlings.”

“We prefer calling ourselves ‘the Free Folk’, my lady.” 

“And what does the King of _the Free Folk_ want to speak with me about?” 

“The enemy beyond the Wall.”

Catelyn raises her chin.

“ _You_ are the enemy beyond the Wall.”

Mance Rayder smiles gently and shakes his head. 

“No. I’m not your enemy.” 

He sounds so genuine, so firm in it that Catelyn believes him for a moment.

“The truth is, Lady Stark, I admire you. The Wall is well protected thanks to you.”

“Does that really make you glad?” 

Mance Rayder shrugs. “Of course. It means the Wall will protect us well too.” He takes a step towards Catelyn, but seeing her tense up he does not move again. “We have to pass through. I came here for that. We can’t attack the Wall. We would only weaken it and that we mustn’t do.”

“Because your enemy will come after you.” 

“The enemy of all of us,” he says. “We need your Wall, and you need my people.”

“I can’t make decisions like this,” Catelyn replies carefully. “My son is the Lord of the North.”

“Yes, but I think at the moment he appreciates his wife’s company more than he would mine. And I have no doubt he’ll listen to you.”

“But why would _I_ listen to _you_?”

The man looks her in the eyes.

“Just let me speak, Lady Stark. Please.” 

And despite being the middle of night and this being her own chamber, despite all improprieties and dangers of the situation, Catelyn offers the King Beyond the Wall a chair.

*

“I should take your head,” Robb points out. “You’re a deserter, after all.”

“You would make a mistake then, Lord Stark,” Mance Rayder says without any concern. “I am the only one who can hold the tribes of the Free Folk together.”

“So… without you the army that threatens the Wall would spread. It would solve a lot of our problems.”

“They would spread and come back, _dead_.”

Here they are again. The dead. The man mentioned them before. Robb still does not know how he should reply. 

“You believe me,” Mance Rayder declares. “You didn’t question the wights’ existence. Not once.”

“He is right. You didn’t,” Jon notes. He stands aside leaning against the wall. 

Robb turns to him. 

“Do you remember that man from the day we found our direwolves?”

“I do. I thought his words were on your mind.”

Those words haunt him. It seems madness, but it cannot be denied that something is happening beyond the Wall. Something that compels the wildlings to unite and run, something they never did before.

And instead of attacking or threatening, Mance Rayder came to him _to ask_.

“I can’t let you through the Wall,” he tells the man. “I can’t endanger my people’s safety. You say the free folk obey to you. But you are just one man against hundred thousands. And forgive me, Rayder, but I don’t even trust _you_.”

The man’s mouth twitches. “Fair enough.”

Robb take a deep breath and continues. 

“I’ll allow some of yours to pass through. Old man who are too weak to take up arms against us, little children, women who are not fighters. They can settle down in the Gift. There is always a need for working hands.”

“And the rest of us?”

“The rest can encamp at the northern side of the Wall where the Watch and the other lords of the castles will oversee them. They can’t cross but they can learn to cooperate with us and there they can rely on our help. And with time, after it’s proved that they are able to follow our rules, they can join the others.”

“We don’t have much time. None of us,” Mance Rayder warns him.

“Still, that is all I can do. All I’m willing to do.”

He has to wait for a while, but at the end, Mance Rayder nods.

“I accept.”


	46. Old truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Lord Howland’s visit in her solar is a pleasant surprise. Catelyn gratefully put aside the parchments filled with complaints and demands.

“I must ask you a question, Lady Catelyn,” he says but then stays silent. He seems embarrassed as if he does not know how to start. “I was thinking about…” He stops and squirms a bit in the chair. “Jon… does he know the truth?”

Catelyn frowns.

“What truth, Lord Howland?”

“About his mother.”

She understands now and shakes her head.

“Ned couldn’t tell him. Jon was too young for that when he died.”

“Yes, but…” He is studying her for a moment. “Forgive me, I believed… I believed he told _you_.”

Catelyn sighs. She wished on so many occasions he would have. But that was a long time ago, and it did not matter anymore. 

“Ned guards his secrets very well. Far too well.” Suddenly, she realizes. “You do know.” 

_Of course_. He has to. She leans forward, more briskly.

“You should talk to Jon.”

Lord Howland smiles vaguely. “I should, shouldn’t I?” But he does not move to look for him just stares down at his hands, deep in thoughts. At the end, he glances up at Catelyn. “To be honest, I hoped Ned spoke with you about that.”

Catelyn recalls her husband’s last words and nods.

“Maybe he wanted.”

“Well… I…” Helplessly, Lord Howland shrugs. “He never mentioned to me whether he planned to tell the boy what happened all those years ago. Although, I presumed it was his intention. He certainly would have found the right moment for it.” He smiles again, bitterly this time. “And that is my problem, you see. I don’t know Jon. I don’t know if it would be good or bad for him to learn the truth. But you watched him grow, my lady. You’ve cared for him since Ned died. You can be a better judge of what’s right.”

Talking to _Jon_. That would be the right thing. On the other hand, how could she be sure of it until she hears what Howland Reed wants to say? If the truth frightens him so much… She bows her head, tense. 

“Tell me.” 

He does. And now Catelyn understands his hesitation perfectly. 

Finally, she also understands those words from nine years ago. And everything that led to them.

_Oh, Ned._


	47. Of mothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Catelyn finds herself watching Jon for days. She is watching and wondering which of his features he inherited from his Targaryen ancestors. His nose? His jaw? Whether his eyes are truly grey – or is there a shade of purple in them in the proper light? 

This is foolishness, she knows. Jon is the same he has always been. Still… she cannot help it.

Perhaps, Jon has also noticed, but if so, he does not say a word about it. 

Catelyn wants to tell him the true story of his birth, she has wanted since she spoke with Lord Howland. After all, he has more right to know than anyone. 

And one moment is just as good as any other, she decides. 

An afternoon Jon brings some ancient scrolls about the wildlings to her. Maester Luwin sends them for her request and Jon explains, quoting the old man, why he chose these works. 

“Do you still think of her, your mother?” Catelyn cuts in. 

Surprised, Jon remains silent for a while. “Sometimes,” he admits. “But for years now I…” Suddenly, he turns his gaze away and does not finish the sentence.

Catelyn, however, knows what he wants to say and she would like to hear but maybe she is not ready for it. Just like Jon is not ready to say it.

“Why do you ask?” They have never talked about his mother. 

“What if I know who she was?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“How? You didn’t know before.”

Looking for words, Catelyn does not reply immediately, and he realizes something.

“Who she _was_.” Jon glances at her questioningly, then, he shakes his head. “I thought she was dead already.” A moment later, he asks, “Did she die when I was born?”

“It happens many times.” 

Jon nods – he knows that – and takes a deep breath. 

“What was her name?” 

“Lyanna.” 

He gives her a small smile.

“Like my aunt.”

“No. Not _like_ her.” 

Jon looks confused. They are sitting side by side on a bench, Catelyn draws closer to him and puts her hand on his arm.

“Jon, your mother was Lyanna _Stark_. Which means your father is…”

“Rhaegar.” 

Apparently, all of the tales and songs about the Rebellion are running through his mind. He pales, the dread written on his face.

“I started it the wrong way,” Catelyn says hurriedly. “Please, let me tell you what Lord Reed told me.”

*

“It feels strange,” Jon confesses. “Very strange. And overwhelming.”

It is. Catelyn has her own experience about it. 

“What do you want to do now?” She asks, although she is rather sure what Jon’s answer will be. 

“Guarding this secret. Marrying Jeyne,” he declares. “Staying who I was an hour ago. It’s good to know all of that though.” 

Catelyn nods but she must warn him. “Some would say you could be more, you _should_ be.” People, who would try to take advantage of him. 

She does not have to say the words. Jon understands it. Of course, he does. 

“They would try to take advantage of me, founding on obsolete rights.” He shrugs. “But I have nothing to do with the south. And they have king already, more than enough.”

True. It is also true that Jon belongs here, to the Starks. 

From Winterfell, King’s Landing, the iron throne… all of it seems no more than a distant dream. Dream of others. 

“No one needs to know,” she reassures him.

“No one will.” 

Save for Jeyne. Save for Robb. With them, he will share it, undoubtedly. 

Amused, Catelyn smiles. It is much easier to keep a secret when you do not know you are doing it. Maybe, Ned was right about that.

Unsteadily, Jon stands up.

“I need… a walk, I think.”

Catelyn bows her head, letting him go.


	48. Who I am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

There is silence in the godswood. Only a soft thud, time to time, when a piece of snow slips down from a branch. Jon sits on a root of the heart tree, looking at the dark water of the small pool.

Ghost is there with him. Storm, however, runs away and Jon is not surprised when he returns leading Jeyne to the tree.

She does not ask anything, just sits down beside him. She takes Jon’s hand and leans her head on his shoulder.

“I know who my mother was,” Jon says after a while. “Lady Lyanna. And my father… he was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

In a comforting gesture, Jeyne tightens his hand. 

“It’s not what you think. They were married. Though, I don’t know if a second marriage would have been admitted as valid if…”

Tenderly, Jeyne is drawing circles with her thumb on his skin. 

Jon sighs. “But that’s not the point.”

Jeyne raises her head to look into Jon’s eyes, questioningly. 

“Being tied to me is dangerous. If anyone finds out this secret, even in these days… _especially_ in these days…” 

“Do you believe that those whom you are important to would turn their back on you, would allow you to push them away?” Jeyne asks.

No, he does not believe that. But fear, above all fear for his loved ones, is not always rational.

He brushes the thought aside and caresses Jeyne’s cheek. 

“So am I important to you?”

She purses her lips. “You can say so.” When Jon, gently and playfully, gives a pinch on her nose, she laughs out. “You’ve been for a long time. I don’t care what your name is. Jon Snow or Stark or…” Waiting, she glances at him.

“Jaeherys. My mother named me Jaeherys.”

Jeyne smiles. “It suits you anyway.” And she repeats it. _Jaeherys._

He will never use it, still, it is good to hear. Or, at least, it is good to hear _from Jeyne_. 

“Would you accompany me to the crypts? It’s time for me to visit _her_.”

“Of course,” Jeyne replies, accepting the hand Jon offers her to help her stading up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: back to Dragonstone


	49. Beasts from the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

When they meet on the shore, the sea is sparkling in the sunlight. It is a strange sight since autumn has arrived. In the horizon a dark mass of ships floats on the still waves. They are full of warriors like these who are coming to the negotiation.

And there is the Targaryen. She is small and young. Tiny bells are braided in her silver hair. Her violet eyes are stern and cold.

She is beautiful.

She is dangerous. 

Theon watches her carefully. She has three dragons, flying and shrieking high in the sky. Theon brought only three soldiers. And Vollys. Looking at him the Targaryen raises her eyebrows. 

She is not the one who starts to speak but the girl – smaller and younger than herself – who escorted her.

“You stand before Daenerys of House Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Silverhanded, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.” 

Theon listens patiently, then, he says: 

“I am Ser Theon Greyjoy, the Castellan of Dragonstone. And I surrender.”

Astonished, Daenerys Targaryen stares at him.

*

They notice the dragons first. The fleet comes after.

Theon knows they lost. And they will only make their situation worse if they do not accept that. 

But Selyse does not understand.

“Negotiating? You should fight them not speaking to,” she screams. “Your duty is to protect us.”

“And I will.” _I’ll try, at least._ “But tell me, my queen, how should I fight _fucking dragons_?”

Of course, she does not have an answer for that. But now, she has new complaints.

“Do you want to bring _him_ with yourself?” Selyse waves towards Vollys who is standing by the wall. “He looks ridiculous with those tattoos on his face.”

Neither Vollys, nor Theon can rebuke her for the roughness, she is the queen, after all. Theon, however, does not have to keep quiet.

“I don’t care how he looks,” he snaps at her. “He speaks their language.” Probably. Vollys can sing and speak on four tongues. Perhaps theirs is one of them. “Targaryens are from Valyria. He knows high valyrian.”

“I believed you learnt it too.”

“Not enough.” It was only a few words and sentences from Davos. It is a miracle that Selyse remembers that.

She crosses her arms.

“Melisandre also knows high valyrian. Besides, she would like to meet this Targaryen.”

Just as much as Selyse would like someone who can be her eyes and ears to meet _this Targaryen_.

“She won’t.” He locks her away, if he has to. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could lock Selyse away as well.

*

Finally, Daenerys Targaryen finds her voice. And she frowns. 

“Forgive me but I think I misunderstood your words. Did you just say…?”

“I surrender,” Theon repeats calmly. “ _If_ you guarantee that Queen Selyse, Princess Shireen and every other women and men in this castle won’t be harmed.”

“And if I refuse your terms?”

Theon sighs. “Then, I’ll be forced to fight you and die.”

“And they will be harmed anyway.”

She plays with him. 

“If the only thing I can do is dying first, that is what I will do.”

She smiles at him. It is a gorgeous smile but not a pleasant one. 

“In another day, maybe. I accept your surrender, castellan.”

There is nothing left only to bend the knee. So Theon does.

“Dragonstone is yours, Your Grace.”


	50. Dragonrider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Theon is walking alongside the parapet when he notices Daenerys. She stands halfway by the wall. With her elbows on the stones she is watching the courtyard beneath. One of her dragons is there, the white and gold and with him… Theon quickens his steps and goes to the queen, trying to remain composed. 

“Ser Theon,” she greets him.

“Just Theon, please. I’m not a real knight, I have never fought in a battle or done anything to earn it.” He leans to the wall next to Daenerys and gestures towards the beast and Shireen. “Won’t he hurt her, right?”

It does not seem probable but that is still a dragon.

“No, I wouldn’t allow him. Besides, Viserion likes her. More than that. Something has changed since they met.” Daenerys frowns, but looks rather content than annoyed. “I think he chose her as his rider.”

Theon draws himself up and following him Daenerys steps away the wall.

“No way,” he declares. “Shireen can’t ride a dragon. It’s too dangerous.”

“Life is dangerous, Theon,” she says in a lecturing voice. “Even in a castle’s safety. Even for a highborn child.”

“I know. But she is just a little girl.”

“She won’t stay that long. I know it better than the most.” Her left arm, the one with the silver hand flinches.

“We’ll see,” Theon replies.

Daenerys turns from him and looks towards the courtyard again but she can see neither Shireen, nor the dragon. She is lost in thought, her forehead wrinkled. 

“Have dinner with me,” she says suddenly.

Before Theon could answer, she glances at him and continues in a colder, warning tone:

“It’s not merely a cordial request, castellan.”

Theon takes a step back and bows.

“I’ll do what you order me, my queen.”


	51. A girl and her dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

A dragon is nothing like a horse, yet, Shireen grooms Viserion as she used to care for her pony. She is talking to him and carefully touches his scales and horns.

Theon, petrified, stops in the corner of courtyard.

He has been unable to concentrate on anything all day but now Shireen has all of his attention.

Daenerys _told_ her, told her that she was – she could be – a rider. Shireen, apparently, is not ready to mount the dragon, but she seems far too enthusiastic.

In any other circumstances, this would make Theon glad, but now…

Besides, his own conversation with the Queen and the last night still bother him.

_“You have the Unsullied and sellswords…”_

_“Not any kind of sellswords,” Daenerys cuts in. “I have the Golden Company.” Her voice is full of complacency. “And I have dragons. Don’t forget it.”_

_‘How could I?’_

_“Still, you need allies,” Theon says._

_Apparently, Daenerys does not like to hear about allies. She does not like to hear any objection._

_“What did you expect, Your Grace? That the people of Westeros are waiting for you?”_

_Anger makes her even paler but when she speaks she can restrain her temper._

_“I believed that. Once. When I was young and fool enough to believe my brother’s fantasies. But I already know that no one has waited for me except for Dorne. Dorne, however, won’t help me, they wouldn’t since…” She tightens her lips and does not finish the sentence. Instead, she stares at him challengingly. “So, tell me, Theon, who could be my ally?”_

Shireen notices him. Or, maybe, Viserion was who noticed Theon standing there and the dragon’s senses directed her attention towards him. It is an unnerving thought. 

“You were right,” Shireen rhapsodizes when Theon steps to her.

“Generally, I am,” he replies with false joy. It is unfortunate that others rarely listen to him.

_“Meet Stannis.”_

_“He’s my enemy.”_

_“Everyone is your enemy now, or they will be, Your Grace. He’s your blood, at least.”_

_“Renly is also my blood,” Daenerys points out. “Just as Robert was.”_

_“But he’s Shireen’s father.”_

“You said it, remember?” Shireen asks with a wide smile. “I didn’t believe you, but you said it.”

Theon is startled out of his musing. “Said what?”

“That I’m strong and I can be like Nymeria. I can be like _Visenya_. And now I have a dragon.”

Clever girl. It was many years ago.

Although Theon did not mean it this way, he does not want to ruin her happiness.

Shireen turns back to the dragon. Viserion watches her, his gaze is equally bewitching and bewitched. No. Whatever bond they share, he does not rule over her.

Shireen is strong. She has been without the dragon too. Theon hopes that this will also be enough against the Queen.

_Daenerys bethinks of his words for a moment. Then, she looks at Theon, her expression is exasperated but determined._

_“I’m fed up with talking for tonight.”_


	52. Kissed by fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Catelyn’s temples are throbbing. She has spent the whole morning with her daughters bending over Winterfell’s books of accounts. Sansa is pretty much terrible at math, while Arya is quite good with numbers but has little patience for the questions of running a household. 

After releasing them, she needs some air. It is a freezing day but it is not snowing at least, and winds do not blow either. 

Then, walking through the courtyard she gets an unexpected company. Mance Rayder hurries to her from the stables. 

“Can I join you, Lady Stark?”

When she nods, he steps to her side taking her slow pace.

“Lord Stark went for hunting with his brothers,” Catelyn notes.

“I’ve been told. But talking to you is a great pleasure for me.”

Usually sentences like this are no more than a courtesy. But he says it because he means it, not because politeness dictates it.

This is his second visit in Winterfell since Robb’s wedding. Catelyn remembers that at the first one he also found occasion to talk to her. 

“You bring good news from the Wall, I hope,” she says.

“Some good and some bad, but nothing I wouldn’t be able to deal with.” 

He tries to speak with ease but there is a grim shade to his voice. 

“Tell me about the bad ones,” Catelyn asks.

He gives her a sad smile. 

“For weeks now no one has come from north. Which means no one is left there. No one _living_.” 

‘There are dead though. They are there and they are coming.’ Catelyn understands that even without words.

Mance Rayder sighs heavily.

“I killed five men from my own because they tried to climb the Wall. _Executed_ them, but killing is killing either way,” he shrugs. “My people are afraid. They are tense. But I made an oath not just in my name but in theirs and I won’t allow them to break it.”

He cannot. He has to prove to the North they can be trusted, that they can follow the rules. It is their only chance for survival.

“We’ll take a wight,” he declares abruptly. “And if we have it, I want the lords of the Wall and the Watch to come and see. I want _your son_ to come and see.” 

“He believes you.”

“And I’m grateful to him for doing so. But belief is not enough, he has to _know_. Every one of you have to know.” Saying that he glances at Catelyn almost apologetically. 

Catelyn, however, does not worry about herself, she would be willing to face anything. She fears for her sons and daughters and for the child whom Meera gives to Robb soon. She turns back to Mance Rayder.

“Do you have a family?”

“I wasn’t so lucky.” But he smiles, and his smile is gentle and warm this time. “You, however, were born favored. Kissed by fire.”

When Catelyn stops and looks at him questioningly, he explains:

“Your hair. You can’t find a lot of red heads beyond the Wall. It’s the color of fire, the color of life… beautiful for us. So, when someone has red hair, we say they are lucky, they are…” 

“Kissed by fire.”

Though, her hair is not true red but auburn, Catelyn, of course, does not correct him. Mance Rayder meant it as a compliment, and it is not appropriate to refuse such.

“I like how it sounds,” she says.

They continue their walking, the snow is crackling under their feet. The clouds above become darker and darker. There will be a storm tonight. Catelyn shivers. Every storm seems a bit more threatening, a bit stronger than the previous one.

Mance Rayder, perhaps instinctively, draws closer to her, his arm touches Catelyn’s. 

“Since I heard you speak about Others and wights for the first time, I’ve wished all of it were a lie,” she confesses.

“I wish the same,” the man replies. Then, with a short delay, he adds, “My lady.” Somehow, on his tongue it feels more than just a title. 

A request.

A desire.

A promise.

_What silliness._ Catelyn brushes the thought aside. But her heart beats harder than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, Mance met Dalla when he returned from Winterfell after Robert's visit. But here Robert didn't travel to the North, so Mance didn't go to Winterfell that year.


	53. Of whores and queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Theon stands by the high window of the queen’s chamber, watching the sunrise over the Narrow Sea. The sky has all the colors of summer, carmine and orange and gold, but there is no warmth in the rays of the sun. 

“What’s wrong?” Daenerys asks in a lazy, drowsy voice.

_Everything._

Theon turns away from the view and shakes his head.

“Come back to bed,” she calls him.

He does but only sits on the bedside. 

Shutting her eyes, Daenerys lays on her stomach. Her face is serene, her left arm is resting on the pillow. 

Theon touches her skin near the stump. “What happened to your hand?” 

Daenerys opens her eyes. 

“Someone tried to kill me.” She is awake now. There is cold anger in her tone. “A Sorrowful Man in the docks of Qarth. He gave me a manticore. It’s a…”

“I know what it is.” Vollys told him about it.

“It stung me but Aggo, my bloodrider whipped out his arakh and chopped my hand off. He was quick enough, still, I almost died. After the wound was burnt I had high fever for a week.”

“I’m sorry,” Theon replies mostly because that is the polite thing to say in such matters. 

Slowly, she closes her eyes again. “It was a useful lesson anyway,” she murmurs. “Made me much more wary.”

Theon cannot help but ask and there is a kind of challenge in his question, “Wary enough?” 

Daenerys stares at him, and just like the sun, her gaze does not have any warmth. 

“Sometimes.”

*

He leaves the Queen’s chamber but barely makes a few steps and he finds himself face to face with Shireen.

“Good morning,” she greets him courteously.

Theon sighs. “Good morning, little lady.”

Shireen does not move, so he does not either. 

“Will you marry her?” She asks with innocent curiosity in her voice.

“ _No._ ”

“But you lay with her.”

He cannot deny it, of course. 

“Yes.”

“My mother says women who lay with men without marriage are whores,” Shireen declares, then, she frowns. “But she can’t be a whore, she is _a queen_.”

It is not so simple, though, he would not call Daenerys a whore either. But he does not want to speak about that with Shireen.

“It’s complicated.”

The wrinkles on her forehead deepen. “Do you think I wouldn’t understand?”

No, she probably would understand more than her lady mother who also has a harsh opinion on men who lay with women without marriage – and she definitely has her opinion on Theon in general.

_“She is our enemy.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Do you?” Selyse raises her eyebrows high. “Your behavior proves otherwise.”_

_“Our best interest – all of ours – is to keep a good relationship with her.”_

_If Daenerys does not see a threat in anyone on Dragonstone, she might not be a threat to them either._

_“Yes, all of us heard last night how good of a relationship you keep with her.”_

“What’s wrong?” Shireen asks worriedly. 

_Everything._

She would understand. Not what he does perhaps but that he does what he feels he must. Theon, however, does not want her to have to understand, so he only shakes his head.


	54. Northerners of all kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“Is it true what we heard at the Wall? About that eastern invader and that now there are living dragons on Dragonstone,” Mance Rayder asks.

Robb’s neck tenses, while he tries intently to avoid glancing towards Jon.

“True,” he admits reluctantly. It is clear where the question leads to.

Although, Rayder does not continue immediately. Maybe he is considering how he should put it into words.

Grey Wind sits calmly beside the table but he fixes his glowing golden eyes on the man. Just like Ghost who lies on the floor at Jon’s feet. He is not as restless as Storm who is roaming the wolf woods near Winterfell with his brother and sisters.

If Jon concentrates, he can feel the scent of the snow and wet litter, and frosty air bites into his skin for a heartbeat. And he is seized by the desire to run and hunt and taste the prey’s blood in his mouth…

The logs snap loudly in the hearth and Mance Rayder finally starts speaking:

“Those dragons could be useful against the dead. Have you already thought of that? Lord Stark.” 

Listening to him, the war against the Others and their creatures seems real, unquestionable. _Too close._

After he leaves, they can brush the feeling aside… but for how long?

“Daenerys Targaryen came for the iron throne,” Robb points out. “She has no reason to be fond of the Starks. She will fight against us sooner than for our sake.”

Rayder thinks about that for a while.

“Does she _have to_ fight against you?” 

“If she does, which side would you choose?” Robb retorts.

Mance Rayder smiles. 

“Both of us knows the answers, Lord Stark. I believe yours, now try to believe mine.”

*

After the solar’s door is shut behind Mance Rayder, Jon speaks for the first time since Daenerys Targaryen was brought on:

“Even if we don’t go to her, which I agree with, sooner or later…”

“She will come to us, I know.” Robb leans back in his chair. In this moment Mance Rayder annoys him more than the Targeryen girl makes him concerned. He holds his hand out, and when he does, Grey Wind is already there. He presses his head to Robb’s palm.

“What will we do then?”

“It depends on what her intentions are,” Robb says, and after a moment he adds, „But we have to be prepared anyway.”


	55. Marriage of convenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“Read,” Daenerys says handing him a piece of parchment, then, she crosses her arms.

Theon’s eyes run through the message.

“Should I congratulate you?” he asks glancing at Daenerys, but she does not reply.

He looks down at the parchment again. It is a marriage proposal, straight from the capital with a royal seal.

“You’ve come to rule over the Seven Kingdoms. If you accept this, you don’t have to fight for it, instead, you can walk into the Red Keep even tomorrow.”

“I want to be queen. It’s not enough if they allow me to be the _king’s wife_ ,” she declares in a disdainful tone. “Especially a Baratheon king’s. Or a Lannister. It’s all the same.”

Theon keeps silent. He is studying the message, more thoroughly this time.

“I would have never believed they could see me anything else but an enemy,” Daenerys continues, almost in astonishment. “I saw them as such. Although, they have other opponents, while I have dragons… They fear me, as they should. But this attempt proves they don’t still fear me enough.” She turns to Theon resentfully. “Do you have nothing to add?” 

“I’m just thinking… It writes the King on the Iron Throne.” Daenerys only frowns, so he makes it clear, “Not King Joffrey.”

She sits down next to him.

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. But Lord Stannis always said amongst lords and ladies, especially in King’s Landing, that all word choices matter.” Theon shrugs. “He hates it.”

“The cities of the Slavers Bay were very similar.”

“Were?”

She smiles. “I prefer straightness. My army helped them to learn it.”

In Theon’s experience, she prefers the games quite a bit but apparently just when she can play them with others.

“I have one more letter,” she says, somehow uncertain. “It also arrived today.”

This one is longer and more usual. And it bothers Daenerys very much.

The writer tries to sound like a gentle, old lady, moreover, a gentle, old grandmother lamenting over long lost, better days and the eternal friendship between two great houses, expressing – so, so carefully – her wish to see Daenerys find the home that meant to be hers in her ancestors’ lands. It could be harmless. It could be touching. Unless what Theon said just now was true. If the writer was not the Queen of Thorns.

“What is its real meaning?” Probably she also assumes, but she must hear it.

“Highgarden swore to Renly. Lady Margaery is his wife…”

Daenerys nods impatiently. She knows that, of course.

“Lady Olenna, however, has grandsons as well. The oldest, heir to the Reach is still unwedded.”

She stands up and starts pacing.

“Would she be willing to favor him over Lady Margaery?”

Theon lifts up the letter.

“She would take into consideration, it seems.”

Her lips tighten. “She would, maybe, but I won’t.”

“They have the largest army and the most powerful fleet,” Theon notes.

“And they have a king.” Daenerys shakes her head. “I won’t let anyone force me to marry, no matter what I could gain with it. I didn’t do in Meereen either.”

“And was that proven a good choice?” The words slip out of his mouth before Theon can stop them.

Rage flashes in Daenerys’ eyes. She does not like to talk about Meereen, and Theon does not push it, rather waits for her to calm down.

“What will you do then?”

“Oh, a question,” she mocks. “Usually, you don’t ask about what I want to do but try to tell me what I should.” 

“I try to give you advices, _Your Grace_ , not commands. That, I would never dare to.”

“Then, _castellan_ , you’re wiser than most of the people I’ve known.” Though, the taunting edge does not fade away from her voice completely. “Maybe it’s time to listen to you…” She clenches her jaw, and it seems she made a decision. “I want to speak to my cousin, Stannis.”


	56. Archery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

The arrow almost misses the target. Usually Arya is better than that. Far better, but her thoughts are elsewhere now.

It is not hard to tell where exactly.

“Sansa agreed she would wed with Lord Harrion.” It is a statement, not a question. 

“She did.” Catelyn stands some steps away from her in the new fallen snow. Nymeria lies beside her leaning to Catelyn’s leg.

Arya draws the string, then, she loosens it without shooting the arrow. She lowers the bow, her eyes narrows, fixing on the man of straw.

“And Bran will be fostered in White Harbor.”

Catelyn raises her eyebrows. She has expected Sansa to talk to Arya about her engagement, this comment, however, is surprising. Just a little bit though.

“Eavesdropping is not nice, Arya.”

Her daughter shrugs and lifts the bow again.

“Nymeria heard it.”

Catelyn looks down at the direwolf.

“Nymeria heard Robb and me maybe, but _you listened to_ what we discuss.”

When the arrow flies past the target, Arya swears in a low voice. So low that Catelyn cannot understand her words. But she senses Nymeria’s weight disappearing. It seems the direwolf feels herself guiltier than her master. Catelyn fondles the wolf’s head. For a while now, she does not have to bend down to do so.

“It has not been decided yet. If it was, you would know.”

Arya nods taking another arrow. Her movements are more collected this time. 

“Bran would like to be a knight and there are some in White Harbor,” Catelyn explains in a lighter tone.

The arrow hits the man of straw’s side.

“And there is that girl,” Arya notes. “Wynafred.”

“Wylla. Although, we’ve talked about sending _you_. For some time.” While she speaks, Catelyn is watching Arya carefully. “Exciting place with travelers from all corners of the world… Or you could go to the Bear Island. You would like it.”

“I think I would.”

“What a pity that House Mormont has no sons at your age.”

Arya’s fifth arrow flies into the snow halfway between them and the target. She turns to Catelyn with a grimace. 

“It’s not funny, mother.”

Catelyn smiles, though she did not mean it as a joke. Not completely. 

“The day, when we do talk about that, will come,” she warns her daughter. 

“A day _in the future_.” 

“A day in the future.” But Catelyn knows it will be a closer one than Arya hopes.

She goes to gather the arrows, then, she shoots all of them again. Catelyn thinks their previous conversation is over, but then, Arya sighs and, resignedly, declares, “But Sansa will marry soon.”

“Yes, she will.”


	57. What we call home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Daenerys is not able to sleep, so Theon accepts he will not sleep either. 

It is late at night. Daenerys’ unbraided silver curls are spread on the pillows, shining in the full moon’s light.

“Stannis was charged with the assault of Dragonstone and the capture of Viserys and me.”

She recites every real and imagined sin of her cousin, as if trying to convince herself not to negotiate with him. Although, it is a bit late for that. They have to meet tomorrow. 

“He also fought at the siege of Pyke, didn’t he?”

“He fought by the Fair Isle, then, on Great Wyk, I think,” Theon replies.

“Still the same war,” she declares. “And he brought you here.”

“No, I was brought to Winterfell. I had lived there for two years before Lord Eddard died.”

Finally, this rouses Daenerys’ interest. She turns to her side even though in the dark she cannot see his face clearly.

“What was it like?”

Theon frowns, deep in thought. So much time has passed since then.

“Terrible… at first. I was angry. I was scared. Someone told me House Stark had a man-sized valyrian sword for executions. Every morning I was afraid Lord Eddard would enter the great hall with that sword in his hand and drag me out to the godswood to take my head before his savage gods.”

To his own surprise, the memory makes Theon break into a slight smile. 

Daenerys, however, sounds horrified when she asks, “Do they behead men before the heart trees?”

“No. Executions aren’t sacrifices. But I heard a lot of tales about the northerners and had my prejudices, and my imagination made them even worse. Then… morning after morning came and nothing happened. I got used to my new state. Lord Eddard had a son, six years old, friendly and curious. He didn’t know what being a hostage meant and I was older, so he listened to me. Just like his half-brother, Jon. Though, we didn’t like each other very much, as I remember.” He cannot name the reason for that anymore. It must have been some kind of childish animosity. “In the end, I was sorry I had to leave.”

“Was that… nine years ago?”

“Almost ten.” 

“Does this place feel like home? Despite everything.”

Theon answered that for himself a long time ago. 

“I think home is not a place but people I care for.”

“Like Shireen?”

“Like Shireen.”

“Strange…” She murmurs wonderingly. “Home was always a place for me. Or rather the idea of a place. A red door and a lemon tree. The sense of being safe. I looked for it amongst the dothraki, then, in Meereen… A place can be yours, something you can own, defend. People however… People can leave or betray you. They can and they will.” 

“What happened in Meereen?” 

Daenerys lies on her back again and keeps silent for a long time. Theon does not expect she will reply at all, but suddenly she starts speaking.

“I had a lot of enemies, a lot of supporters… and I had suitors. There was Hizdahr, a noble merchant, the High Priestess urged me to take him as husband to appease the Meereenese. There was Quentyn Martell from Dorne. And… Aegon. He came to me at the head of the Golden Company claiming he was my nephew, son of Princess Elia and my brother, Rhaegar.”

Theon would like to ask _so many questions_ but he does not want to distract her. 

“He was everything I had dreamed of _once_. But I changed and I doubted. He believed himself Aegon but I was unable to believe it. And if I could have … he said _we_ would conquer and rule the Seven Kingdoms…”

“But you want to be the queen not the king’s wife,” Theon quotes her words.

“Yes.” Her voice becomes more bitter. “Quentyn was determined to fulfill his mission and return to Dorne with a Targaryen. So after he failed with me, he went to Aegon offering alliance and the hand of his sister to him. He tried to convince him to take Viserion and Rhaegal and sail to Sunspear together. But Aegon refused and when Quentyn tried to steal one of my dragons he wanted to stop him and died.”

“And Quentyn?”

“Rhaegal burned him. He was past saving.”

Daenerys falls silent, it seems she does not want to say more. She moves closer to Theon, he can feel the warmth of her skin. This time, her words are not only bitter but desperate.

“I’m fed up with talking for tonight.”


	58. Visions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Standing on the top of the wall Theon watches as Drogon and Rhaegal are shrinking more and more in the horizon. Then, he notices something red from the corner of his eyes. Melisandre of Asshai approaches him.

Generally she avoids Theon which is perfect for him. Now, however, the priestess steps to his side, fixing her gaze on the already empty sky.

“She is Azor Ahai reborn,” she says with piety.

“Not so long ago you stated _Lord Stannis_ was Azor Ahai reborn,” Theon reminds her.

“I was wrong,” she admits, her voice is surprisingly airy. “The Lord of Light is wise. He showed me the right place but not the right time.”

“What makes this wise?”

“He wanted me here to greet his champion in the proper way.” Melisandre looks at him, slightly frowning. “That I couldn’t do thanks to you.” Then, the wrinkles on her forehead suddenly smoothen, making Theon nervous. “My Lord spoke to me again through the flames,” she declares.

“I don’t care.” He turns to leave but he stops after only a few steps. He does not care about visions, however, it is better to know what is on the priestess’ mind. “Tell me.”

Melisandre comes closer to him – not too close though – with a victorious, mocking smile.

“I saw a great battle in the snow like no one has seen for thousands and thousands of years. I saw black hands and blue eyes. I saw walls of fire and ruins of ice. I saw three dragons with three riders flying high in the darkest sky.”

Melisandre has talked _a lot_ about Azor Ahai and the War for the Dawn since she set her feet on Dragonstone. Still, hearing these words a shudder passes over Theon. Patchface told him similar things – similar rubbish. In fact, very similar. ’ _Hands of black and eyes of blue._ ’ Theon shakes his head and focuses on the part that is comprehensible.

“Who is the third rider? Lord Stannis?”

“No. But I can’t see clearly.”

Theon snorts. “Of course, you can’t.”

Melisandre tightens her lips. Apparently, she wants to prove that her tricks are real and useful.

“It’s someone younger.”

“Renly?” 

But Melisandre does not know the answer. Why would she know?

Theon shrugs. “Well, if he is, our queen won’t like it.”

And Stannis would like it even less, he presumes.

It is fortunate that Melisandre alleged visions should not be taken seriously… should it?


	59. Two stubborn people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Dany is sitting in the tent that Stannis Baratheon put at her disposal. Guarding her, Dragon and Rhaegal lay outside, their bodies form a perfect circle around the tent. No one can come close to her. Despite that, Dany knows she will not shut her eyes this night.

Not until it is decided what becomes of this parley with Stannis Baratheon. 

She has not met anyone like him. He would never obey her. He will never be charmed or intimidated by her. 

If he accepted Dany as his queen he would not honor her the way others have. 

He would call question her, forever. Even if he was able to trust Dany she would have to prove she was worthy of it all the time.

A man like that is dangerous. On the other hand, a man like that is valuable and perhaps exactly what she needs.

It is an infuriating thought. 

By all means, it is good he is not a dragonrider.

_“Are you sure about it, my lady?” Ser Davos Seaworth asks. Her cousin brought his advisors to the negotiation, but this common man is the only one who has dared to call her._

_“I am. I would feel it if it was otherwise. Lord Stannis would as well.” She does not take her eyes off Stannis Baratheon, not for a moment._

_Maybe if he had been childless… Though, Dany cannot know Viserion choose Shireen just for her bloodline or for herself._

_“You didn’t allow my niece to accompany you, fearing she would choose her lord father above you.” It seems Ser Davos’ question increase courage in others, like Stannis’ Lord Hand._

_“Shireen could turn against me, but Viserion would be unable to.”_

_“Dragons fought each other in the past,” Stannis points out, finally speaking to her._

_Dany smiles, proudly. “But unlike my ancestors, I’m more than just a rider of a dragon. I’m the mother of them.”_

It is hard to explain – or admit – but she does not want to fight her cousin, that victory would not bring her triumph. But she will do it if Stannis forces her to. 

*

Sitting in his tent the words that Ser Davos said after the negotiation are on his mind.

_‘She’s so much like you.’_ From a certain aspect, she is, he must admit that. At the same time, however, she is entirely different.

She is just like Rhaegar. Just like Robert was in his youth. She is the sort of person whom songs are written about. Who can set people’s imagination aflame – he notes it even in his own men, even now, although, Daenerys Targaryen arrived just a few hours before. 

But she arrived on a dragon’s back.

Stannis cannot feel such a thing. There is no glory or beauty or gorgeousness that can stun him.

But he has eyes to see on others’ faces, he has ears to hear in their voices. 

And he knows very well that he cannot make them watch him like that or speak about him that way.

The useless sword of Heroes is laying in his lap. He made the smart choice of leaving Melisandre behind on Dragonstone. He did what he could and at least, he can say he did it all on his own. 

Still, it was not enough. 

He should force the realm man by man to yield to him lengthening this war for years. 

But he has run out time already. 

If he resists, if he fights he will die tomorrow and those who fight on his side will burn in dragonfire with him. It could be valiant, it could be defiant.

And it would be cowardly and selfish. Duty dictates him to serve the realm. Death would mean to give all the Seven Kingdoms, all the people to the hands of pretenders who are unworthy of them. Death would mean betrayal. 

But Stannis Baratheon is not a traitor.

And he is not Azor Ahai either. He is Torrhen Stark.

*

Dany is surprised when through her dragons’ senses she notices Stannis approaching. But when her cousin enters the tent, her expression is perfectly collected.

She does not stand up and he does not bend either just takes the other chair across from Dany. 

“You won’t be king, but Shireen can be my heir.”

That offer, apparently does not enthuse him. “Until you bear your own child,” he says.

Dany purses her lips. No way she will tell Stannis Baratheon that she can never have a child of her own. 

He only stares at her but if he came to see her backing down he will be disappointed.

*

Stannis studies this girl, trying to see her as queen. _His queen._

Maybe. One day. The path, however, that leads there is very, very long.

“You have dragons. You have an army. Why haven’t you attacked?”

She is not a strategist but a conqueror. But Stannis wants her to admit and say it.

“I know a little about battle plans.” She shifts in her chair with embarrassment. 

Stannis nods. They have to clarify the balance of power.

“I can win this war.”

“With my dragons and sellswords.”

“With them, it will be easier. ”Because no way _he_ admits any weakness to her.

“Would you be willing to win it for me?”

“For us.” But this is not a promise but a question and Daenerys understands it.

She is deep in thought for a while.

“If you are loyal to me, I will be loyal to you.”

Stannis has poor experience with emotions but this one… this one he knows very well. She offers the greatest thing she can think of.

“If I swear loyalty I will keep my word to the very end.” 

She does not believe him – not wholeheartedly, at least – but it is all right. He does not believe her either.

“Now speak, what are your plans about ruling?”

This is his fate, after all. Always being the second one, always standing one step behind someone else. 

Though, it does not necessarily have to mean the shadow.


	60. Lion locked in cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Lost in his thoughts, Lord Tywin Lannister barely listens to the shaking voice of Grand Maester Pycelle. The Maester is enumerating the latest news his ravens have brought from all the Seven Kingdoms.

“Lord Tully’s wife died in childbirth.”

Staring still at nowhere, Tywin does not even move his head. However, this bit of information catches his interest. 

In the name of the King, Edmure Tully fights at the border of the Reach and the Crownlands.

“And the child?”

“Stillborn,” the Grand Maester replies with well-trained empathy.

That means the heir to the Riverlands is the second son of Lord Edmure’s older sister. What is the boy’s name…? Brandon, maybe. 

“The Iron Fleet is raiding along the firth of the Mander. Euron Greyjoy does a good service for us distracting the Tyrell’s attention…”

With a wave of his hand, Tywin silences him, then, sends him away. He does not need Pycelle’s advices in the matters of warfare.

Still the Starks are on his mind. They strengthened the Wall and they have started rebuilding the fortress of Moat Cailin. A Stark girl would be the perfect bride for a king. Would be if Joffrey…

Cersei rushes into the chamber.

“I want to see my son.”

Tywin leans over his paper again after he put it aside to hear what Pycelle wanted to say. 

“Your son is with Ser Barristan practicing swordplay. You can see him after that.”

“I’m speaking about Joffrey.”

Of course she is. 

“Care for the son who matters,” Tywin advises her. 

Though, Cersei is blind and deaf when someone – even her lord father – tries to draw her attention to her older son’s unworthiness. As she proves it right now:

“Joffrey…”

“… will be locked away and forgotten,” Tywin cuts in. “If we had any luck, all of his foolishness and mistakes would fall into oblivion with him, but that is beyond my power.”

“He is the king.” Her voice becomes lower and unsure, still, she says it, “Your king.”

Using that against him, Cersei’s boldness is outright insolence. Tywin does not tolerate it.

“He isn’t my king. And he will never be anyone’s. He does not deserve it. That awful, spoilt son of yours would destroy everything I’ve built, everything I’ve done for this family. I won’t let it happen. If he wasn’t my blood he wouldn’t live long enough to see the end of the war.”

Cersei breathes sharply. 

“Joffrey is your grandson. A lion of the Rock.”

“Only a caricature of a lion,” Tywin declares with bitterness. One more disappointment. “He can spend the rest of his days in quiet and peace, or he can spend them struggling and mourning but he will spend them far from here.” 

“And what are your plans with Tommen?” Cersei hisses, trembling. Clearly, she can hardly contain herself not to burst out.

Tywin lies back in his chair to look into her eyes. They are not burning with anger, instead, they are cold which surprises him.

“When we gain victory above our enemies,” he replies, “it will be announced that King Joffrey’s health took a turn for the worse due to the war’s burdens and his state doesn’t allow him anymore to fulfill his duty towards the realm, so he will disclaim the throne and give the Seven Kingdoms and all his subjects’ safe and welfare to his brother’s hands.” 

After a long, heavy silence, Cersei stiffly nods. 

In response, Tywin nods too, as a warning.

“Now go, I have a lot to do.”

Cersei turns to leave but stops for a moment before she exits the chamber. 

“And where is your victory, father?” she asks with poison in her voice, then, she slams the door.


	61. Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Entering her chamber Catelyn finds Mance Rayder sitting of the side of her bed. He is not supposed be here – of course – but it would be useless to remind him of that.

He holds a lute in his hands and plays a familiar melody as his fingers are running through the strains, then, he starts singing in his heady voice.

_I loved a maid as red as autumn  
with sunset in her hair._

“I’m not a maid.” Time seems to froze for a heartbeat when she starts speaking and breaks the song’s charm.

“No, you’re not.” The man puts down his lute and steps to her.

Kissing him, allowing his fingers to loose the knots on her gown is misadvised from every aspect. But this very moment none of them is enough to stop her.

*

The sun, after many grim days, shows itself this morning. Its light is weak and pale, but it proves the rule of winter has not been complete yet. 

Catelyn wishes the world stayed motionless just for a few moments. 

“You know… According to my people traditions, you are my wife now.” Mance notes.

She laughs softly.

“I believed you have to steal a woman from her home to become yours. But we are in Winterfell.”

“And still, I have taken you.”

He touches her cheek and Catelyn shuts her eyes. By opening them, she knows, it is time to return to reality. 

“You’re here because your men managed to capture a dead,” she says. 

Mance’s face turns somber, though his gaze remains gentle. With his thumb, he slowly strokes her eyebrow, her temple…

“Yes. Your son has to come with me to the Wall.” 

Catelyn nods. So lastly, the war begins.


	62. Before I leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Catelyn has been looking for the opportunity since morning to speak with Jon, so when they finally meet near the Great Keep, she grabs at his arm and draws him aside.

“I know we agreed that you and Jeyne would wait until she became older, but…” But things have changed and will change a lot more soon. “No one can even guess what the future will bring for us.” Or how much time they will have. “Marry her. By the time you return from the Wall I can arrange everything.”

Emotions run through Jon’s face. Astonishment, enthusiasm and pure joy. And he comes to a decision.

“I… Lady Catelyn, as you said the future is uncertain, we cannot even know what will happen after we arrive at the Wall. So… if it is possible, I want to marry Jeyne before I leave Winterfell. Before I have to see that… creature.”

Catelyn is unable to answer instantly. _No… How…_ A wedding demands a lot of arrangements, dresses, ornaments, a great feast with… But do all of these really matter? For Jon, they clearly do not. And they can have a sort of celebration, after all. A few more dishes can be cooked for tomorrow evening, cakes and roasted meats. And Mance is one of the most talented musicians the North has ever heard. And surely Sansa or Arya can find a proper gown amongst their own for Jeyne.

“All right.”

For a moment, neither her, nor Jon believes she said that. Then, he realizes something.

“If Jeyne also accepts, of course.”

Catelyn has no doubts she will. As soon as Jon – forgetting everything else – goes to talk to the girl, she turns and hurries back to the castle. She has very much to do.

*

So it happens that the night before leaving to the Wall Jon Stark weds Jeyne Poole by the great weirwood tree in Winterfell’s godswood. 

It is not a lustrous wedding. Small and simple, but the happiest one Catelyn has ever attended.


	63. Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“You said it was impossible.”

“I thought it was.”

Impossible. 

She also kept telling herself when the first signs were showed. 

Impossible.

She told the Maester when he confirmed her suspicion. 

_Impossible._

And still.

“Why?”

Dany looks at Theon, confused.

“Why did you think you couldn’t have children?”

When Dany told him she was unable to conceive moons before, he simply believed her.

“A _maegi_ foretold me. 

‘After my son was born dead and malformed. Because of her.’

It sounds as ridiculous now as right and irrevocable it sounded in the Dothraki Sea when Mirri Maz Duur said those words to her. The words that hung over her head like a judgment, like a curse.

Theon does not comment and does not raise any question either for which she is glad. 

They are sitting in silence for a while.

Dany is dazed and enchanted, she has been since she accepted her pregnancy as truth.

Theon still seems thunderstruck. And severe.

“And now?” 

_Now?_ She has an answer for that, but she hesitates, because no matter how necessary it is, she feels so, so humiliating to say the words. 

However, it has to be done. 

“Take me as your wife.”

“Is that an order?” he asks with a dry smile.

“It is a request.”

Waiting for Theon’s consent – or refusal –, Dany decides she must explain, if for no other reason, to fill the quiet.

“If I want to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms I can’t bear a child out of wedlock.”

But she does bear this child, it cannot happen otherwise. 

“Undoubtedly.” Theon’s voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat. “It will be as you wish.” 

Dany can breathe freely again and she smiles faintly. Although, they have to clarify some more things.

“I know, according to the ironborn’s faith, I would be accounted only as a salt wife, but…”

Theon shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter to me what traditions say, I do not follow their ways.” 

“And you do not believe any god.”

“I don’t have to believe for my oath to count. If I take one I will keep it not because I said it before some god. I will keep my word because I mean it.” He sighs. “However, a proper ceremony is needed.”

Dany nods, a bit unsteadily.

“Even if… would Lady Melisandre do it?”

There is not a septon on Dragonstone anymore. And although the old godswood is untouchable, no one knows the northern ritual well enough.

Theon shrugs, resigned. 

“It has to be her, doesn’t it?”

*

Lady Selyse is proved to be surprisingly helpful.

Though, she disdains Theon and does not like Daenerys, she reckons marriage is the right decision to make. 

The day of the wedding comes quickly.

Waiting by the ditchfire, Melisandre looks immensely self-complacent. 

“You refuse the grace of the Lord of Light, still, he is blessing you, Theon Greyjoy,” she says.

It sounds like some sort of lesson from her mouth but Theon does not listen. At her, at least.

Daenerys approaches, alone. In the light of the moon and the flames her whole figure – her braided hair, her skin, her essosi gown – is all silvery glow. 

It is an impossible thought that she is carrying his child, and even more so that she will become his wife this night.

Despite it, they stand here side by side – as duty demands – and say the words which will bond them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a theory about Dany having a miscarriage after she escaped on Drogon’s back in ADwD (in this story it didn’t happen). Her current pregnancy is based on that.


	64. Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Catelyn is surprised when Jeyne visits her late at night. And her surprise only grows and turns to fury when the girl tells her with rushed words what has just happened. 

Thanks to all the gods, Jeyne looks more embarrassed than anything else, still, _that_ kind of behavior is completely unacceptable.

“Stay here,” Catelyn says to her and goes to find Cregan Karstark. 

He arrived today with his nephew as it was planned, but Lord Karstark changed his route and followed Robb to the Wall. 

Both men are just like how Catelyn remembers them. While Lord Harrion is courteous and calm, Lord Cregan is spiteful and hot-tempered but she has never thought he would dare to insult a member of Winterfell’s household. 

Catelyn finds him in the great hall where he is arguing with his nephew in a low but feverish voice.

“I did nothing.” His speech is blurred. He must have drunk. “And what does it matter if I did anyway, Harry? That girl is just the steward’s daughter and…”

“And the wife of my son,” Catelyn interrupts harshly.

They turn to her. Harrion Karstark who has no reason to seems ashamed, Lord Cregan, on the other hand, is ready to fight. 

Before he could answer, however, his nephew starts speaking.

“Of course. I beg your pardon, Lady Stark. My uncle returns to Karhold, _immediately_ , and will wait for my lord father and me there.”

Indignantly, Cregan Karstark wants to protest, though he should obey that order. And if he does not leave for his nephew’s word, Catelyn will throw him out.

She hears the sound of shoes stamping and nails scratching on the stones. Sansa and Arya appear with two wrathful direwolves in tow. But instead of Lady and Nymeria it’s Sansa who draws Catelyn’s attention to herself. 

Her face is red with anger, her hands curl into fists. And she is snarling like her wolf.

“If Jon was here, if Ghost and Storm were here, you would be torn apart. But Lady could do it too. She did it before. If you try to touch any of us again. If you go near any of us again.”

Arya – whatever she wanted to say – only nods, stunned. 

Harrion Karstark stares at Sansa as if he seeing her for the first time. 

“You have heard. _My Lord_. You have to leave,” Catelyn declares. “And it is better if you leave now.”


	65. Betrothed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.
> 
> There was a mention about Meera’s pregnancy in Chapter 52.

Meera bore her son yesterday. The child, whom she is nursing in her arms, charms her and Catelyn entirely. So they do not pay real attention to Septa Mordane who is fussing around them, nattering without end about Sansa walking in the winter garden with Harrion Karstark. 

“It’s not proper for an unwed young lady to be alone with a man, not even if that man is her betrothed.”

“I perfectly trust Sansa,” Catelyn declares.

Septa Mordane lets out a heavy sigh.

“Sansa, of course, her behavior is always beyond reproach.”

Catelyn must smile. It is such great luck that poor, old Septa Mordane did not see her daughter threatening Cregan Karstark.

“However, it is not our lady whom I am worried about but that Karstark boy.”

The Karstark boy is nearly twenty-four, although, that fact would only give more reason for Septa Mordane to worry.

She sniffles with disdain.

“I have heard a few things about his uncle’s leaving.” 

Catelyn shrugs. Up to now, Harrion has proved to be different. And if she is wrong about him, well…

“I perfectly trust Lady.”

*

Uncharacteristically for her, Sansa does not know what to say. Harrion Karstark and her (and Lady) are walking slowly amongst the plants and flowers that are green and full of life despite the winter. 

It reminds her of their last meeting, the last _proper one_. Then, she was afraid she seemed like an empty-headed little girl – though she considered herself neither little, nor empty-headed. 

_The first sight of Harrion Kartark frightens her. He is older by nine years, a big man with thick black beard. Being frightened, however, would be very unmeet for a Stark._

_Anyway, Lady is perfectly calm what makes her calm too._

_Sansa can be wrong but Lady would know if Harrion Karstark was not to be trusted, if he meant any treat to them._

_“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he starts speaking. Sansa remembers he is not good with words but he is trying. “And since (I saw you at) your brother’s wedding I’ve known that all the words are true. A beauty like you cannot be found in the Seven Kingdoms, not even in the court.”_

_Sansa smiles at him, raising her eyebrows._

_“Have you ever been there?”_

_“No,” he admits. Unbelievable, but he looks embarrassed as much as she feels herself. “But I cannot imagine there’s a woman in King’s Landing who would outshine you.”_

But he hardly would say – or think – such a thing again.

That conversation gave her hope regarding their future marriage. Since everything that happened with Lord Cregan, however, Sansa has not known what she can expect.

Suddenly, Lord Harrion stops and for a brief moment touches her arm gently.

“Can I speak honestly, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa faces him, takes a deep breath and nods. If Harrion Karstark does not want to marry her, well… she does not to marry him either.

“Since meeting you, I have thought you a sweet girl. What I told you last time… I may not be good with compliments… but I meant it and I felt lucky. And then…”

“And then I shouted at your uncle that I would feed him to my direwolf.” 

He laughs. Sansa’s heart lightens.

“You did. And I believed you, both of us believed you.” There is no disapproval in his voice. “And now I know you are much more than a decent and pretty, _very pretty_ lady.” His tone suddenly changes, becoming more serious. “It would be my honor to marry you.”


	66. At the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

Jon finds him on the top of the Wall.

“Lord Commander Mormont is waiting for you,” he says.

“I’m coming.” But Robb does not move and does not glance at Jon either.

He steps to him and following his gaze looks down the hills and woods covered by snow. 

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Robb asks with awe.

The world beyond the Wall is glowing in the moonlight. It is endless and eternal.

“It is,” Jon admits. “Frightening though, even without wights and Others. I can’t imagine living here now.”

Robb turns to him, raising his eyebrows.

“Was there a time when you could?”

“No. But many years ago I believed I would.”

“I’ve never heard about that.”

Jon smiles. 

“Because I told Lady Catelyn and she forbade it.”

Robb nods in approval.

When Jon says ‘Lady Catelyn’ it sounds like when Robb says ‘mother’. Actually, Jon can say that as well. Robb knows mother would not mind it. But he does not want to meddle, it is up to them.

*

The Lord Commander’s chamber feels narrow with so many people. There are Lord Karstark and Lord Umber with his sons, some lords from the Gift, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwick, the Lord Stewart and First Builder of the Watch, Black Jack Bulwer who took Uncle Benjen’s place as First Ranger, the master-at-arms in Castle Black, Ser Alliser Thorne, and Mance Rayder of course. Even the old Maester comes, accompanied by a fat boy. Two young men bring him up to the tower in a chair.

“All of us are ready to defend the Wall,” Robb declares. He does not have to look at his lords to know they agree.

“And the Wall also will defend itself,” Jeor Mormont adds. “But I’m afraid it’s not enough.”

“We’ll send messages to every lord and lady south from the Neck to ask for help.”

“They will believe we are mad,” Alliser Thorne growls. “I _do believe_ we are mad despite seeing that creature.”

“They will, no doubt,” Robb replies. “And they’ve already their own wars to deal with. But not trying would be madness as well.”

“So messages… to _everyone_?” Mance Rayder asks meaningfully and Robb knows very well what he is thinking about.

“Everyone.”

“Including Daenerys Targaryen?” Maester Aemon’s voice is weak, barely more than a sigh. He cannot be aware that he is asking the same question as Rayder before him.

“Yes,” Robb repeats.

The old Maester nods and shuts his eyes. It seems listening to their conversation and speaking a few words make him tired. 

Lord Mormont looks into Robb’s eyes, grimly. He does not have to say what is on his mind. The entire North can fall in line by the Wall. Every southerner can march here. But what if it will not be enough against a threat like this?


	67. An old dragon and a secret one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks.

“Tarly.”

The boy turns to Jon. His face is equally frightened and defiant. It was not Jon’s intention to harm him in any way, now, however, he feels like he must apologize.

“Sorry for scaring you.”

When he gives a tiny nod as a response, Jon steps closer to him. 

An odd boy, he is. Not someone whom Jon would ever expect to find here, wearing the black.

Still, men arrive at the Wall, from time to time to take the vows and become brothers of the Night’s Watch, willingly. Old men, after a long and whole life. Younger ones, without other possibilities to make their own way in the world. 

But none of these describe Samwell Tarly, firstborn son and former heir of Lord Randyll Tarly from the Reach. 

“I would like to ask something from you. About Maester Aemon.”

His expression becomes wary. Actually, this is already an answer in a way. 

“What do you want to know, my lord?” 

“Which house did he come from?”

The name, Aemon, made him think first. Although, people could live, even now, all over the Seven Kingdoms with names like that. But then the Maester asked about Daenerys Targaryen. He got himself brought to the Lord Commander’s chamber only to make sure that someone asks this exact question and he could hear the reply with his own ears. 

Samwell Tarly hesitates. Finally, he sighs.

“I can’t judge whether it is a secret or not, but if it is, it’s not mine to tell.”

“You are right, of course. I understand. Could I… could I talk to the Maester then?”

Again, he thoroughly considers Jon’s request. 

“Come.”

*

“Aemon Targaryen, indeed, that was me once,” he whispers and his mouth draws to a toothless smile. “I gave it up, again and again, until, at the end, the realm was willing to forget about me.”

The old man sits in his bed, leaning on some pillows Samwell Tarly put behind his back. 

He takes some heaving breaths and continues.

“I know young Sam doesn’t like to hear it but in these last few years I was ready to go. But now… I want to wait for _her_. I want to wait for Daenerys.”

Sam seems half relived, half annoyed about his remark. 

“I have never believed… I have never hoped I can meet another one from my line in this world.”

Jon is about to start speaking. He almost does it. But he cannot tell him his own story, it would be too risky regarding the Maester’s age and state. However, he can hear his tales about a childhood in King’s Landing, a beloved brother, and then, about choices and losses and regrets.


End file.
